Murder in Highbury (Emma Knightley Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 8

C HAPTER 8

T he former ballroom at the Crown Inn was already crowded with Highbury residents. A few rows of chairs at the front of the room were set aside for witnesses, while another twelve against the east wall were reserved for the men who sat on the coroner’s jury.

Emma thought the inquest an unnecessary distraction, but the law was the law. So they must all be jammed into a stuffy room to rehash distressing details, only to arrive hours later at a foregone conclusion.

She glanced at her father, who looked remarkably out of place in an elegant greatcoat and his best hat and gloves. Behind them hovered a footman, cashmere shawl at the ready in case his master encountered an errant draft. There was little chance of that, given the warm summer weather.

“Father, it’s so crowded in here,” she said. “I promise to look after Miss Bates if you wish to return home.”

“Is Miss Bates here?” he anxiously replied. “Do you see her?”

An elderly gentleman seated off to the side let out a violent sneeze—sans handkerchief.

Father looked aghast. “Emma, this crowd is quite dreadful. Dr. Hughes was most remiss in allowing it.”

That Mrs. Elton’s inquest was being seen as something of an entertainment was unfortunately obvious. An excited buzz filled the room, and a number of villagers had brought along bundles of food, as if attending a sporting event. The scent of meat pies and a strong odor of onions wafted through the air, curdling her stomach.

“It is certainly not ideal, but you needn’t stay, dearest. I’m sure Miss Bates will be fine.”

Or not.

Miss Bates would be the first witness to testify. Given how poorly she’d dealt with Emma’s sympathetic questioning, it was hard to imagine that she would perform any better under the present circumstances.

Her father adopted a look of dogged determination. “No, my dear. I will not shrink from my duty. Miss Bates is my very dear friend, and I have every intention of supporting her in her time of trial.”

When heads whipped around at this pronouncement, Emma mentally winced. Trial and Miss Bates were an unfortunate combination in this particular situation.

Constable Sharpe startled her by suddenly looming by her side. The man reminded her of a terrier, darting about and appearing when least expected.

“Mrs. Knightley, can I be of assistance?” he asked, his bristly eyebrows snapping together in an almost comical glower.

Rail thin and of middling height, Mr. Sharpe gave the impression of narrowness, both in form and temperament. His spare features and plain black garb suggested the air of a disgruntled cleric.

“Thank you, but we’re fine,” she replied.

He tipped his hat to her father before directing his scowl back at her. “You’re blocking the doorway, Mrs. Knightley. Best take your seat, before you jam the place up. The whole town is fit to squeeze in here, as if they have nothing better to do.”

Father looked over his shoulder and then grasped her elbow with some urgency. “Emma, there is a family standing behind us, with three children. Children!”

“Yes, it’s quite shocking for them to be exposed to such a scene.”

“But they might be infectious, Emma. You know how infectious children can be.”

She repressed an entirely inappropriate urge to laugh as she gently nudged him forward.

As they processed up the center aisle, her father was oblivious to the stares and comments that followed in their wake. He so rarely ventured past the gates of Hartfield that to see him in person—at the local inn, no less—was a novelty.

There were many faces in the crowd that she didn’t recognize. More than just the locals had come to witness the spectacle, which was to be expected. The murder of a vicar’s wife was bound to have caused a commotion throughout the surrounding countryside.

Mrs. Weston and Harriet, seated in the front row, stood to greet them.

“Mr. Woodhouse!” exclaimed Mrs. Weston. “What a surprise.”

Emma could well understand her reaction, since a volcano spewing forth in the middle of the town square was almost more likely than her father’s appearance at such a public event.

“I couldn’t countenance the thought of Miss Bates going through this ordeal without my support,” he replied. “But if she can bear it, I certainly must steel myself to do the same.”

When foolish titters erupted behind them, Emma turned to encounter the unwelcome sight of the Cox sisters, sitting in the second row with their mother.

Anne smirked at her. “La, Mrs. Knightley, your father does say the quaintest things. What a dear old fellow to be so kind to Miss Bates.”

Mrs. Cox rapped the girl’s hand with a small fan. “Anne, mind what you say. Mrs. Knightley will be shocked to hear you speak of her father that way.”

Anne looked surly but held her tongue. Not for the first time, Emma wondered how such a respectable woman could have raised such an unappealing child.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Cox,” she said. “I hope you’re well.”

The woman stood and bobbed a curtsy. “As well as can be expected, Mrs. Knightley. To be called on to speak about such things in front of all these people . . . why, it makes my heart quail just to think of it.”

“Yes, it’s very distressing.”

“For some more than others,” Susan Cox said, casting a meaningful gaze at Miss Bates.

Father had moved down the row to speak to Miss Bates, who stood and clutched at his hands, words tumbling from her lips. Emma exchanged a worried glance with Mrs. Weston before joining them.

“Oh, Mrs. Knightley,” Miss Bates exclaimed. “I cannot tell you how much it heartens me that dear Mr. Woodhouse has ventured from Hartfield to support me today. But such a shocking thing, to have his peace all cut up.” She gazed earnestly at Emma’s father. “I cannot think this can be good for your health, sir. I truly think you should return home.”

“For you to suffer through this alone was a prospect I could not bear,” he replied. “My health cannot be thought of, not at a time like this.”

Emma felt her jaw sag open like an old dresser drawer. There was hardly a moment in her father’s life that his health—or the health of his loved ones—failed to be his primary concern. That he would so boldly throw caution to the winds was now beyond astonishing.

Miss Bates pressed his hands. “I know I’m terribly selfish, Mr. Woodhouse, but your presence will be of such a great comfort to me, especially when I must—” She broke off, her mild blue eyes filling with tears.

“Miss Bates, perhaps you should sit down,” Emma said, very aware of the interest they were attracting.

“Oh, you are quite right,” Miss Bates replied with a weak smile. “To keep your father standing is very shocking of me. Now, where should Mr. Woodhouse sit, Mrs. Knightley? You would know best how to arrange things.”

“My father can sit right here beside you, Miss Bates, and perhaps Harriet can sit on your other side. If you need anything, such as a glass of lemonade or a cup of tea, I’m sure Harriet will be happy to fetch it for you.”

“Of course,” said Harriet. “And Robert should be along at any moment. He’s very good at fetching things. He would be here already, but he was detained because one of our other heifers calved this morning. I told Robert that Elsie’s timing was very inconvenient, but he said heifers don’t give a fig for inquests, or anything else but their dinner.”

Miss Bates seemed much struck by that comment. “Very true, Mrs. Martin. Dear me, a new calf just this morning. Mr. Martin must be very pleased.”

“He is, and she is the sweetest little calf, Miss Bates. We are all quite excited and wondering what to name her.”

While Miss Bates was properly diverted by Harriet’s cheerful prattle, Emma settled her father into his seat.

“Would you like to take off your coat or hat, dearest? Simon can hold them for you, if you like. He’ll stand just off to the side there.”

Emma’s father regarded her with horror. “To remove my coat would be madness in this environment. In fact, please have Simon help me with the shawl. I can drape it over my knees. I feel sure there is a draft on the floor, Emma. I wish we had thought to bring another shawl for you.”

“I’m perfectly fine, Father.”

While Simon helped her father with his shawl, Emma took the seat next to Mrs. Weston.

“I am greatly surprised that Mr. Woodhouse came with you,” her friend said. “I would not have thought such a thing possible.”

“He insisted. I told him there would likely be people here with head colds, but even that didn’t frighten him off.”

Mrs. Weston frowned. “I’ve never known him to exert himself in such a fashion. What did Mr. Knightley have to say about it?”

Emma pulled a face. “He doesn’t know yet, since he left the house early. But he won’t be pleased. Dr. Hughes intended to summon Father to sit on the jury, but George convinced him that his health wouldn’t allow for it. I cannot wait to see the good doctor’s expression when he sees Father sitting in the front row.”

“It’s all so dreadful. If Mr. Weston wasn’t sitting on the jury, I’m sure I would not have come at all.”

“Speaking of the jury, I thought they would have returned by now. How long can it take to look at the crime scene?”

“I believe they have gone to view the body, as well.”

Emma blinked in surprise. “Truly? I thought Mr. Elton was adamantly opposed to that.”

It was a normal, if rather gruesome, procedure for a coroner’s jury to view the body of the victim. According to George, however, Mr. Elton had raised a vociferous objection, deeming it a violation of his wife’s dignity.

Mrs. Weston leaned in a bit closer. “Dr. Hughes was apparently equally adamant that the jury be allowed to see her.”

“I find myself much in agreement with Mr. Elton,” Emma replied.

When Anne Cox leaned forward and rested a hand on the back of Mrs. Weston’s chair, Emma jumped. She’d forgotten the dratted girl was behind her.

“It’s dreadfully horrible, isn’t it?” Anne said with an exaggerated shudder. “With Mrs. Elton just lying there in her coffin, her skull all bashed in. Don’t you think—”

“I think you should refrain from tasteless speculation,” Emma interrupted.

Mrs. Cox, who’d been talking to Susan, turned to Anne. “Why are you pestering Mrs. Knightley? Sit back, now, like a good girl, and be quiet.”

Anne subsided into her seat but not before casting Emma a disgruntled scowl.

“Miss Cox seems to have taken a dislike of you, Emma,” Mrs. Weston murmured. “Do you know why?”

“I gave her a set-down the other day at Ford’s because she was gossiping about Miss Bates.”

“That is most unfortunate.” Mrs. Weston flipped open the small watch pinned to her dark green spencer. “At least the jury should be returning soon. I hate to think of them standing about in all this heat.”

“It cannot be worse than sitting in here.”

She leaned out to check on her father, who now seemed perfectly comfortable. He was in close conversation with Miss Bates, even sharing his cashmere shawl with her. The sight of him in such intimate conversation with the spinster—admittedly an old friend—was more than slightly disconcerting, and Emma had to shrug away the odd sensation that something had just shifted under her feet.

Impatient for matters to be underway, she glanced behind her, hoping to see some sign of the jury’s return. Instead, she spotted Robert Martin making his way toward them.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Knightley, Mrs. Weston,” he said, doffing his cap. “Can I fetch you anything? Something cool to drink, perhaps?”

Emma glanced at Mrs. Weston, who shook her head. “No, we’re fine, Robert. Did you see any sign of the jury on your way here?”

“I did. They were just coming out of the church. It looked like Mr. Knightley was trying to move them along, but Dr. Hughes was still jawing at them.”

Emma affected surprise. “Dr. Hughes still talking? How shocking.”

Robert raised a hand to smother a grin before moving over to sit with Harriet.

Over the past nine months, Emma had gotten to know Robert quite well. He was a trifle rough around the edges but possessed both a good heart and excellent common sense—just as George had told her all those months ago, when the young man first proposed to Harriet.

It was a rather lowering thought, but George had proved to be a better matchmaker than she was.

For a few minutes, Emma sat in silence, recalling the last time she’d been in this very room. It was for the Westons’ ball given in honor of Frank Churchill. The space had been transformed into a graceful assembly hall, its flaws hidden by the glow of candlelight and festoons of flowers and greenery. In Miss Bates’s inimitable words, the Crown Inn had been transformed into a fairyland conjured up by Aladdin’s lamp.

That magic had long since faded, along with the dingy gray wallpaper and the tired-looking wainscoting. Now it was the perfect setting for a murder inquiry, sure to lower one’s spirits to match the occasion.

With something of a commotion, the jury arrived and made their way to their designated seats. Emma recognized some of the faces, but several were unfamiliar, because they were drawn from the surrounding villages, as was required by law.

Dr. Hughes and a young man—his son, she believed—followed the jury in. Behind them came Mr. Elton and George. The vicar gave Emma and Mrs. Weston a wan smile as he passed along to the end of the row.

“Aren’t you going to sit with Dr. Hughes?” Emma whispered as George slipped into the empty seat next to her.

“My duties are finished for the moment. Like you, I will now be called as a witness.”

Mrs. Weston leaned forward. “Is Mr. Suckling not here to support his brother?”

George glanced over his shoulder. “He’s by the door. Like Mr. Elton, he opposed the viewing of the body. Dr. Hughes was forced to overrule them, so Suckling is in a temper. I suggested he remain at the back of the room in case he should feel the need to step out for some fresh air.”

“Very adroitly done,” Emma wryly replied.

“Sadly, our coroner is also in a rather unfortunate mood.”

Emma glanced at Dr. Hughes, who was indeed looking thunderous as he organized his papers on a small table. “Is he ever in a fortunate mood?”

George was staring down the front row. “Emma, why is your father here?”

“He insisted on coming to support Miss Bates. I couldn’t talk him out of it, George. Not even the threat of drafts could deter him.”

Her husband sighed. “Dr. Hughes will not be pleased.”

Just then, the coroner looked up, and his gaze landed on Emma’s father. His expression transformed into one of disbelief. Then he glared, first at poor Father, who remained blissfully unaware of the ire directed his way, and then at George, as if he were personally responsible for this unwelcome state of affairs.

George simply returned a bland smile. Dr. Hughes fumed a bit but went back to arranging his papers.

“I believe you’ve fallen out of favor with Dr. Hughes,” Emma said.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever been in favor, but he’ll simply have to put up with me.”

“More like you have to put up with him.”

He tapped a finger to his lips. “Hush, my dear. He’s about to begin.”

A murmur of excitement rippled through the room as Dr. Hughes stepped forward. “Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, the jury is now present. They were sworn in earlier this morning, and Mr. Weston was selected as foreman. The scene of the crime has been viewed by the jury, as has the victim’s body.”

“My poor Augusta,” Mr. Elton uttered in a broken voice, loud enough to be heard by the jury and everyone in the first several rows. “Such an affront to her dignity.”

That triggered a round of sympathetic murmurs. Dr. Hughes glared the room into relative silence.

“Having fulfilled those requirements under the law,” he continued, “we will now proceed to call witnesses to give testimony regarding the death of Mrs. Elton, such that will assist the jury in reaching a conclusion regarding a charge of murder.”

When he paused for dramatic effect, with one hand pressed to his waistcoat, Emma was hard put not to roll her eyes. Could the pompous fellow not just get on with it?

“I now call the coroner’s first witness,” Dr. Hughes announced in stentorian tones. “Miss Henrietta Bates, will you please step forward.”