Murder in Highbury (Emma Knightley Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 6

C HAPTER 6

E mma smiled at her husband as he ushered her out Hartfield’s front door. Sadly, the beloved of her soul did not smile back.

“I cannot be happy about this, Emma,” George said. “You should have spoken to me before confronting Miss Bates.”

Over the years, she’d learned that although George mostly had the right of things, he wasn’t always right. This was one of those times.

“In all fairness, George, you went out very early this morning to see Dr. Hughes and then Constable Sharpe.”

“You could have waited until I returned home for luncheon,” he dryly replied.

“Dearest, did you truly wish to be the first to confront Miss Bates about her extremely odd behavior? As gentle as I was, the poor woman was still overcome with hysterics. I had to fetch Mr. Perry to attend to her.” She breathed out a dramatic sigh. “But if you believe you could have managed the situation more adroitly, I sincerely apologize for overstepping.”

His mouth twitched only slightly, but she caught it. “Ha. Admit it, George. You loathe feminine vapors.”

“I concede your point,” he said as they walked down the drive. “Still, I do not relish explaining to Dr. Hughes or Constable Sharpe that you spoke to Miss Bates first. It is hardly proper procedure, Emma.”

“You’re the magistrate, George. Simply act”—she waved an airy hand—“magisterial.”

“Perhaps you could explain that to Dr. Hughes. He seems markedly unimpressed by my magisterial qualities.”

“How dreadfully unhelpful of him. I suspect he believes that he should be magistrate, not you.”

“The good doctor does seem to have an excellent regard for his own opinion.”

When Emma laughed, he finally cracked a smile.

“My poor George,” she said, “all this is a great deal of fuss and bother for you.”

“What truly matters is obtaining justice for Mrs. Elton. Everything else pales in comparison.”

Her amusement faded at the truth of that sobering reflection. “I hope Dr. Hughes and Constable Sharpe are up to the task. You’re too busy to catch the killer by yourself.”

“I’m sure they will do everything necessary.”

Though Emma doubted that, George didn’t need her pestering him with concerns beyond his control.

“Did you have the opportunity to write to Jane Churchill?” he asked.

“By the time I had explained the situation to Mrs. Bates and then fetched Mr. Perry, I was barely able to arrive home before luncheon. In any case, after thinking on it, I believe it would be best if Mrs. Weston wrote to Jane. She will know just what to say. The Westons are stopping by for tea later this afternoon, so I will speak with her then.”

George shook his head. “This is a great deal of trouble for you, too. I am sorry for it.”

“I am happy to help, especially if it relieves you of some of your burdens.”

“It cannot have been easy to explain this unfortunate situation to Mrs. Bates,” he said as they entered Highbury.

The dear old lady had been dreadfully distressed as Emma explained the situation to her. It had been Mrs. Bates who’d asked her to write to Jane, since she and her daughter would need the support of the Churchills to see them through this ordeal.

“She was so upset, especially when I told her that Miss Bates might be required to give testimony at the coroner’s inquest.”

“You can be sure she will,” he replied rather grimly. “First, though, she will need to give her statement to Dr. Hughes. I suspect Constable Sharpe will wish to question her, as well.”

They paused as Mr. Cox rode by on his new filly, which, according to Harriet, was his current pride and joy. One would think his children would qualify as such, but knowing Mr. Cox’s impertinent daughters, Emma couldn’t blame the man for preferring his horse.

“Good morning, Mr. Knightley, Mrs. Knightley,” he called, preening a bit.

They returned his greeting before resuming their discussion.

“I hope you intend to prepare both men for the likely outcome of such questioning,” Emma said. “Constable Sharpe in particular seems the sort of person who will provoke Miss Bates into a bout of the vapors.”

“A hideous prospect, to be sure. I might even be forced to employ some smelling salts for myself.”

Emma choked back a laugh. “It’s quite wicked of you to make me laugh when we are talking of such dreadful things.”

He cast her an ironic glance as they turned into Vicarage Lane. “Forgive me. I find that since our marriage, my sense of what is appropriate has become somewhat impaired.”

“Truly? Then, well done me.”

He snorted.

“But in all seriousness, George,” she continued, “Miss Bates’s manner of speech is so confused, especially when she’s perturbed, that I’m afraid she will completely befuddle Dr. Hughes and annoy Mr. Sharpe.”

“Dr. Hughes is already aware of her foibles. As for Constable Sharpe, he’s convinced that Mrs. Elton was murdered for her necklace. It would take a great deal of imagination for anyone to envision Miss Bates engaging in such a brazen act of thievery, and our constable is not a man of imagination.”

“From what I’ve observed of him in the past, his wits certainly do not live up to his name.”

“Now, Emma,” said her husband, gently chiding. “Constable Sharpe takes his duties very seriously. While the parish vestry was generous in paying him a small salary, it is hardly adequate for a task of this nature. He is a farmer as well as a constable, as you know, and I’m sure he’d rather be minding his own business than tracking down poachers or keeping order in taverns. It’s a thankless job which very few men wish to take on.”

George was an advocate of a more professional policing, of the type that had recently been introduced in London and other large cities. But customs in the country were hard to change—as was the attitude that stouthearted Englishmen could manage their own affairs without the law breathing down their necks.

“True, but Mr. Sharpe seems to be leaping to conclusions. I think I could do a better job of investigating, quite frankly,” she replied.

“Then I suppose you should submit your application for the position of constable to the vestry council forthwith—if not directly to the Crown.”

Before she could scold him, a little girl in a smock pelted out of one of the small cottages that fronted Vicarage Lane.

Lucy Peters was a sweet child who helped her widowed mother take care of her younger siblings. Mrs. Peters had been ill of late, unable to attend her job as a seamstress. Emma had visited the family just a few days ago with a basket of nourishing provisions, and she’d spent some time there with the children.

She smiled at the girl. “Good afternoon, Lucy. How is your mother today?”

“Ever so much better, Mrs. Knightley, since you sent Mr. Perry. Mama said to thank you for the broth and fruit. And all them nice pastries.” She favored them with a gap-toothed grin. “Me and my brothers liked them orange scones a lot, so I’m to be sure to say thank you for them, too.”

Emma gently tapped the little girl on the nose. “Shall I bring some more scones? I feel sure that our cook is making a fresh batch today.”

Lucy gave a vigorous nod. “Yes, please. Me and my brothers would be ever so grateful, Mrs. Knightley.”

“Then I shall see you tomorrow. Give your mother our regards.”

As the little girl skipped back to the cottage, Emma reached for her husband’s arm, intending to walk on. Instead, George cast a swift glance around the lane and then tipped up her chin to press a kiss to her lips. She happily received it, although she couldn’t help laughing as he pulled back.

“And what was that for, George?”

“A token of my appreciation. You’re a good woman, Emma Knightley, and I consider myself a fortunate man to call you wife.”

She took his arm. “If I really am a good woman, I suspect it’s more a credit to you than to me. You certainly schooled me often enough for my impertinent behavior when I was growing up.”

“Then I can only say I had a very apt pupil.”

“I am obviously a credit to us both. But I do hope I’m past the point of schooling, and certainly scolding. I recall that you delivered some rather spectacular scolds on occasion.”

“I will endeavor to refrain from future scolds if you endeavor to refrain from giving me reasons for them.”

Emma suspected that George might soon have a few opportunities to scold her, since he wished her to be involved in the murder investigation as little as possible. Naturally, she wouldn’t dream of interfering in an unhelpful way, but she had made two important discoveries—the murder weapon itself and the fact that Miss Bates had been the first person to stumble across the scene. Given that, she saw no harm in keeping her hand in.

In a minor way, of course.

They approached the vicarage, an old and not especially good house, although the present occupant—and his unfortunate wife—had smartened it up considerably. While it inconveniently stood only steps from the lane, Mrs. Elton had seen the door painted a handsome green and installed a shiny brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. She had purchased new curtains and rugs throughout and had also expanded the flower gardens and shrubbery right up to the edge of the churchyard, which backed up against the vicarage grounds.

Even with all her changes, it was still an old-fashioned house, with reception rooms so small, according to Mrs. Elton, as to be barely respectable. She’d talked of plans to add a new wing that would hold a dining parlor and a modern kitchen with a new stove. Alas, those plans would now be unrealized. After the death of his wife, Emma couldn’t imagine that Mr. Elton would care very much about smart dining parlors or new stoves.

A liveried footman, another of Mrs. Elton’s innovations, admitted them. Mrs. Elton had claimed that one couldn’t possibly live with any degree of elegance without liveried footmen. She clearly modeled herself on her sister, the fashionable Mrs. Suckling of Maple Grove, who apparently had three.

Despite several planned excursions, Mrs. Elton’s sister and brother-in-law had yet to make the trip to Highbury. Still, Mrs. Elton had always talked about the Sucklings and Maple Grove at such length that Emma felt she knew them quite well—and quite well enough, indeed. She supposed, however, that she would meet them soon, since the Sucklings would no doubt wish to attend the funeral.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the footman said. “Mr. Elton is with Mr. Suckling, but he asked me to fetch him as soon as you and Mrs. Knightley arrived.”

Emma exchanged a quick glance with her husband. Mr. Suckling had certainly made a quick journey from Bristol.

The footman led them across the entrance hall, recently painted a rather bold shade of green. Only last year, Mr. Elton had all the public rooms freshly painted in shades of cream and dove gray in anticipation of the arrival of the new Mrs. Elton. Apparently, however, the husband’s choice of color had not met with approval, as a peek into the dining room also seemed to suggest. It had been papered rather than painted, and with expensive silk, if Emma didn’t miss her guess.

The double doors to the drawing room were firmly closed, and the presence of a black wreath above the frame signaled that the body rested within.

They were shown to a small parlor toward the back of the house and left to wait there.

Emma took a seat on the sofa. “I wonder if Mrs. Suckling accompanied her husband.”

“I doubt it,” George replied as he wandered to the window that overlooked the garden. “Mr. Suckling must have traveled very quickly to arrive in such good time.”

“Surely Mrs. Suckling will come to Highbury, though. She and her sister were so close.”

“Perhaps Mr. Suckling intends to take the body back to Maple Grove.”

Emma frowned. “I shouldn’t think so. Given that Mr. Elton is a vicar, one would expect his wife to be buried in his church. Besides, transporting a body in the middle of the summer hardly seems sensible, George.”

A spark of amusement lit his eyes. “How practical of you to note that, my dear.”

The very wealthy often transported bodies back to their estates if their loved ones inconveniently died in London or some other far-flung place. Only they could afford to do so, since it required packing the body in ice to preserve it on the journey.

“I do seem to have become rather comfortable in discussing dead bodies,” she admitted.

“Only rather?” he wryly replied.

“George, this is a very inappropriate conversation. Imagine what Mr. Elton would say if he heard us.”

He cocked his head to listen. “I don’t hear anything. He must still be closeted away with his brother-in-law.”

Emma found that odd. Mr. Elton was always obsequious in his attentions to George—and to her, now that she was married to the master of Donwell Abbey.

George went back to staring out the window, while Emma fidgeted and looked around the room. She’d been in this parlor only a few times, but she couldn’t help noticing that it now boasted a new and expensive escritoire in the French style.

“I do hope nothing is wrong,” she said after a bit. “It’s not like Mr. Elton to keep you waiting.”

George turned from the window and came to sit beside her. “It is not, but perhaps Mr. Suckling only just arrived. It would be natural that he and Elton would have much to discuss.”

That made sense. Both Mr. and Mrs. Elton had always been very conscious of the importance of their relationship with the Sucklings. Even in the midst of his own grief, Mr. Elton wouldn’t wish to slight his brother-in-law in any way.

A quick step in the hall brought Emma and George to their feet. The door opened, and the vicar, looking harassed, hurried into the room.

“Mr. Knightley, do accept my profound apologies. Unpardonable of me to keep you waiting.”

When George replied that they’d not been waiting long at all, Mr. Elton protested.

“No, you are both too polite.” Then he grasped Emma’s gloved hand, gazing earnestly into her eyes. “Mrs. Knightley, this terrible tragedy must still be a great shock to you. I cannot bear to think of your distress at finding my poor Augusta, or how upset poor Mr. Woodhouse must have been at the news. Be assured that I will call on your esteemed father as soon as I can, and please extend my apologies for such a gross assault on your delicate sensibilities.”

Emma thought the assault on poor Mrs. Elton was of far more note than any damage inflicted on her sensibilities. “I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Elton. You are not to worry about me.”

“You are too noble, dear lady, but I’m sure Mr. Knightley must also be very aggrieved.” He cast an imploring glance at George. “Do forgive me, sir. I would have given anything for poor Mrs. Knightley to be spared the horrific scene at our church.”

“I think you’ll find that Mrs. Knightley is quite resilient. She has suffered no lasting ill effects from that most sad day,” George reassured him.

Mr. Elton gazed at Emma with a soulful expression. “How brave you are, Mrs. Knightley. An inspiration to all of us.”

Brave Mrs. Knightley was now trying to retrieve her hand from Mr. Elton’s grasp.

“Mr. Elton,” she said, “I’m in perfectly good health and have suffered no ill effects from the discovery of your wife’s body.”

When he dropped her hand, she realized her assurances were a trifle too robust.

“Of course, I am excessively grieved at poor Mrs. Elton’s tragic demise,” she hastily added. “We are all of us terribly distressed for you, my father especially. He asked me to convey his condolences, and he hopes to have a proper visit with you after the funeral. You are to come spend the afternoon at Hartfield when you are able.”

Her father had an absolute horror of funerals, convinced they were breeding grounds for hideous ailments.

When Mr. Elton again reached for her hand, Emma forestalled him by rummaging inside her reticule for a handkerchief. Foiled in his attempt, the vicar took refuge in a lugubrious sigh.

“I cannot yet comprehend that my dear Augusta is gone. I half expect her to rise from her lonely bier and come into the parlor to greet you, like Lazarus called forth from the grave.”

Emma could scarcely think of anything more appalling than Mrs. Elton rising from her coffin. Fortunately, the door opened, and a man came into the room, sparing her the need of a reply.

Elton mustered a smile for the new arrival. “Ah, Horace, allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Knightley, of whom you have heard so much.” He glanced at George. “May I present to you my brother-in-law, Mr. Suckling of Maple Grove?”

“Please accept our condolences,” George said, exchanging bows. “It is a terrible blow to your wife, no doubt.”

“Yes, she is exceedingly distraught.” Mr. Suckling paused to give Emma a barely there nod. “Ma’am.”

His brusque manner bordered on rudeness, but she, of course, made allowances for the unusual circumstances. Still, the next few moments suggested that Mr. Suckling was a brusque sort of person, as he made no further attempt to engage in conversation. He simply stood in the middle of the room, glowering at the floor.

After a few awkward minutes, Mr. Elton waved a hand toward the sofa. “Mrs. Knightley, please sit. Shall I ring for tea?”

Emma resumed her seat on the sofa. “No, thank you. George and I do not wish to trouble you.”

“It is no trouble at all, Mrs. Knightley. I will just step out—”

“For God’s sake, Philip,” Mr. Suckling impatiently cut in. “I’m sure the Knightleys have better things to do than dawdle around here with tea and biscuits. As do you and I.”

The vicar gaped at his brother-in-law with offended astonishment.

George smoothly stepped in. “Thank you, Mr. Elton, but there is no need to entertain us. Mrs. Knightley and I simply wished you to know that we are happy to lend any necessary assistance.”

“And I am deeply grateful, sir,” he replied. “Please do sit.”

George sat down next to Emma, while Mr. Elton took the needlepointed wing chair opposite the sofa. Mr. Suckling remained standing, apparently impatient for them to be gone.

While Mr. Elton and George discussed funeral details, Emma observed Mr. Suckling. He was a tall man of middle years, with blunt features and a high forehead that seemed creased in a permanent frown, which suggested a general state of disapproval with the world. His coat was well cut and expensive, and his boots were in the latest style. He wore a black silk armband but made no other concession to the mourning state, instead sporting a pale yellow waistcoat, an elaborately tied cravat, and a number of fobs.

True, he must have had to rush from Bristol without the chance to acquire proper clothing, but there was something odd about the man and his attitude. Rather than giving the appearance of grief, he seemed almost . . . angry.

Then again, anger at a loved one’s murder was undoubtedly a natural response.

George touched her arm. “Mr. Elton has just been telling me of the arrangements for the funeral. It’s to be held the day after the coroner’s inquest.”

She blinked. “Of course. So, Mrs. Elton will be buried in Highbury, after all.”

The vicar nodded. “Her family has quite a fine vault at St. Mary Redcliffe Church in Bristol, and there was some idea that she should be interred there. But I couldn’t bear to have my dear Augusta anywhere but in my little churchyard, always near me. Besides, her abhorrence of finery would reject anything elaborate, you know. The arrangements shall all be quite simple and quiet, just as she would have wished.”

Mr. Suckling made a distinctly derisive snort. Mr. Elton, however, ignored him.

Emma decided it best to ignore him, too. “Then with those matters decided, we would ask you to allow us to hold the funeral reception at Donwell Abbey. We will be happy to host those who attend the service, as well as any other Highbury residents who wish to stop by to pay their respects.”

The vicar pressed a feeling hand to his heart. “I will happily take you up on your generous offer. I find myself quite unable to play a proper host on such a dread day.”

“Hell and damnation, Philip,” Mr. Suckling suddenly barked. “Augusta was murdered! The funeral should be private, not an opportunity for gossips and village idiots to stand about and gawk at us.”

Mr. Elton turned to stare at his brother-in-law. Mr. Suckling stared right back, his expression a virtual challenge.

When Emma poked George in the thigh, he cleared his throat to capture the attention of the glaring brothers-in-law.

“There will be a good number of people who wish to pay their respects to Mrs. Elton’s memory,” George said. “Especially among the ladies. As many of them will not attend the funeral service, as is customary, they can offer their condolences to Mr. Elton at Donwell Abbey.”

Mr. Elton turned to him with relief. “Exactly so, Mr. Knightley. Even in her short time here, my dear wife commanded great affection among the locals. Is that not so, Mrs. Knightley?”

“Indeed, your wife made quite an impression on all of us,” she replied.

Of one sort or another.

When Mr. Suckling muttered something uncomplimentary, she decided it was best to forge ahead. “Mr. Elton, will other friends and family of Mrs. Elton be attending? They are welcome to stay at Donwell, if that is more convenient for you. I can assure you that the accommodations are far more comfortable than at the Crown.”

Mrs. Hodges, Donwell’s housekeeper, would probably string her up for making such an offer, but it seemed the charitable thing to do.

Mr. Elton sighed. “Such generosity! But with the exception of my brother-in-law, I believe only locals will be in attendance.”

“Mrs. Suckling will not be coming to Highbury?” asked Emma, surprised.

Mr. Suckling scowled at her. “My wife is too distressed by Augusta’s murder. She will remain in London, where she will be safe.”

Emma was about to point out that murderers were hardly running about Highbury in broad daylight until she realized that at least one murderer might, in fact, be doing just that.

“I didn’t realize you were staying in London, sir,” she replied with an apologetic smile. “That, at least, is more convenient, since it is only sixteen miles from Highbury.”

“There’s nothing convenient about running back and forth between London and Highbury, I assure you.”

Good God. The man was rudeness personified.

“Mr. Suckling, we had no prior knowledge of your travel arrangements,” George said in austere tones. “Or what is convenient for you and Mrs. Suckling.”

Mr. Elton looked vaguely alarmed. “Of course not. Horace and Selina traveled to London only a week ago, to avail themselves of some shopping. Then they intended to travel here for their long-awaited visit.” His face crumpled a bit. “Augusta was so looking forward to showing Highbury to her dear sister. She particularly wished to introduce Selina to you, Mrs. Knightley.”

Emma grimaced in sympathy. “How very sad, sir. I have heard Mrs. Elton speak many times of the anticipated pleasures of her sister’s visit.”

“Yes,” Mr. Suckling brusquely put in. “Selina is very cut up about it.”

Unlike her husband, it seemed.

“Now,” he continued, “may we turn to more pressing matters? I must away to London this afternoon, and I was hoping to hear a report on the investigation before I leave. Knightley, I understand that you’re the local magistrate. What can you tell me thus far?”

Knightley?

Really, he was even ruder than Mrs. Elton had been.

Her husband coolly nodded. “I shall be happy to do so, if Mr. Elton desires it.”

“I don’t know why he should object. Selina will wish for a report, and God knows I took care of Augusta for years before her marriage. There should be no question that I am entitled to hear the report.”

Emma was caught by his turn of phrase. What did he mean by took care of Mrs. Elton? And why was he so combative?

“I have no objection, Horace,” the vicar replied in a mild tone.

“Splendid. Then let’s get on with it.”

“As you must surely surmise,” George said, “we are in the early stages of the investigation. The coroner and the constable are questioning witnesses, and arrangements are being made for the inquest, which begins tomorrow.”

With an admirable economy of words, he related the relevant details and the arrangements for the inquest. After Mr. Suckling brusquely interrupted several times, Emma wished that for once her husband would respond in kind—or at least call him Suckling instead of Mr. Suckling.

“The killer was obviously after Augusta’s necklace and didn’t care how he got it,” said Mr. Suckling. “Bad luck, Philip. I know how much you spent on the piece.”

“Good God, Horace!” Mr. Elton exclaimed. “I would gladly give up a hundred necklaces to have my beloved wife back.”

His brother-in-law rolled his eyes. “Knightley, are there any leads on this thief, or is my sister-in-law likely to be denied justice?”

“We should refrain from making any assumptions at this point.”

“So you have no leads,” Mr. Suckling dismissively replied.

Emma couldn’t help but bristle. “In point of fact, sir, we don’t even know if the murderer was a random thief or if theft was the original motive in the case.”

George shot her a warning glance. “My dear, perhaps it might be—”

“What the devil can you mean, Mrs. Knightley?” Mr. Suckling demanded.

“Horace, such language in the presence of a lady is hardly fitting,” Mr. Elton admonished.

“What isn’t fitting is Augusta’s murder. And I would still like an answer, if I may.”

“Of course,” Emma crisply replied. “Aside from Mrs. Elton’s necklace, nothing else was stolen. Since the church is in possession of some very fine silver and brass, it seems odd that any thief would ignore at least those items on the altar.”

Mr. Suckling frowned. “That is odd.”

“Mrs. Elton might have surprised the thief before he had the chance to rob the church,” George said, sounding a trifle annoyed.

“But the killer used the brass candlestick to . . .” She trailed off, reluctant to state matters so bluntly.

“Bludgeon my sister-in-law,” Mr. Suckling finished, suffering no such qualms.

Emma nodded. “It’s a very fine piece, as is its mate. They were right there for the taking.”

Mr. Elton frowned. “Mrs. Knightley, what are you suggesting?”

When she glanced at George, he simply lifted an ironic eyebrow.

You’re in it now, Emma.

“I can’t help wondering if there wasn’t a different reason for her murder,” she said. “Or one in addition to the theft of the necklace.”

“Such as?” Mr. Suckling rapped out.

George finally intervened. “Mr. Elton, had your wife been troubled by anything or anyone of late? I did not wish to distress you in the immediate aftermath of the crime, but it is a question that now must be asked.”

The vicar frowned, as if thinking.

Mr. Suckling made an impatient noise. “It’s not a complicated question, Philip. Was there anything that was troubling Augusta in the weeks before her death?”

“Yes, if you must know,” Mr. Elton replied with some reluctance. “She’d fallen into a dispute with Miss Bates. I believe it led to an argument with her only a few days before Augusta’s death.”

Drat and double drat.

Mr. Suckling looked startled. “Bates. You mean the Fairfax girl’s aunt?”

“Yes, although Jane is now Mrs. Churchill,” the vicar replied. “She married Frank Churchill last year.”

“Why was Augusta quarreling with Miss Bates?” his brother-in-law asked.

“She neglected to provide me with any details. At the time, it didn’t seem very serious. Then again, Augusta never wished me to think ill of my parishioners, kind soul that she was.”

“Fortunately, I don’t suffer from the same scruples,” Mr. Suckling replied. “Knightley, given this information, I take it that you’ll be questioning Miss Bates. If you believe she’s a suspect, I will want to know about it.”

Emma could keep silent no longer. “She is not a suspect. It’s ridiculous to imagine poor Miss Bates bashing anyone over the head with a candlestick.”

George let out an exasperated sigh. “Emma, you will distress Mr. Elton.”

She winced. “Forgive me, Mr. Elton. But you must admit that it’s entirely far-fetched to believe Miss Bates to have committed such an act.”

“I completely agree,” he earnestly replied. “And please do not worry on my account, Mrs. Knightley. You could never offend me.”

That was patently untrue, but apparently, old resentments had been forgotten under the weight of Mrs. Elton’s demise.

“This Miss Bates character sounds rather fishy to me,” Mr. Suckling opined.

Emma glared at him. “Well, she is not.”

“Mr. Suckling,” George hastily said, “Dr. Hughes and I will keep you and Mr. Elton apprised of any developments. In the meantime, everyone should avoid arriving at unfounded conclusions. The coroner’s inquest will be informative, and you will be able to ask any questions of Dr. Hughes at that time. I take it you will be there?”

“I will ride from London first thing in the morning.”

“Excellent. Then we will be on our way,” George said as he came to his feet. “We will see you tomorrow, Mr. Suckling.”

Mr. Elton escorted them to the front hall, mingling profuse apologies with profound thanks. When the vicarage door finally shut behind them, Emma leaned against it and breathed out an exasperated sigh.

Her husband gazed at her with a sardonic eye. “Well, my dear, that didn’t go quite as expected, did it?”