Murder in Highbury (Emma Knightley Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 10

C HAPTER 10

A thunderous crash echoed through Donwell Abbey’s cavernous kitchen. Emma and Mrs. Hodges, the abbey’s housekeeper, spun around to confront a catastrophe of shattered dishware and scattered pastries. Donwell’s lone footman stood in the center of the mess, his breeches and stockings liberally splashed with pastry cream.

“I’m right sorry, Mrs. Knightley,” Harry plaintively said. “The dish started to slip out of my hands, and I couldn’t stop it.”

“Goodness, you are the clumsiest man I’ve ever known,” Mrs. Hodges exclaimed. “All those pastries ruined. What will the master say about that?”

Harry’s face blanched as white as the cream that had once filled the pastries, and he stared at Emma with a pleading gaze.

“It will be our secret, Harry,” she said, knowing George wouldn’t give a fig. “Now, please clean yourself up and then go help with the arriving carriages.”

The poor fellow bobbed his head and scurried away, clearly grateful to escape the housekeeper’s wrath.

“Why the master keeps that clumsy oaf about the place is a mystery,” groused Mrs. Hodges. “Wasting Serle’s best pastries, and with so many mouths to feed.”

“We have plenty of food, thanks to you and Serle planning everything so splendidly,” Emma soothingly replied. “I am quite in admiration of you both.”

The housekeeper looked slightly mollified. “We’ve done our best, ma’am, but it’s been years since the abbey served so many guests. I can’t say that we’re used to it.”

The old-fashioned kitchen now bustled with servants, most imported from Hartfield and even a few from Randalls. But for Mrs. Hodges, Harry, and a few maids, George currently kept no other house servants on Donwell’s staff. Since his move to Hartfield, many of the rooms had been closed up. Some parts of the abbey, like the kitchen, stood in dire need of updating.

The combined staff had thus far done a splendid job. Who could have foreseen that a funeral reception would turn into the principal event on Highbury’s social calendar? It seemed almost everyone from the village and surrounding parishes had crammed into Donwell’s noble halls, ostensibly to pay their respects.

“I think most everyone is here by now,” Emma said. “Some of the men will be arriving a bit later, because they stayed behind for the graveside committal.”

Mrs. Hodges looked vaguely alarmed. “How many more are expected, madam?”

“I shouldn’t think more than a dozen or so. I do hope there is plenty of cider on tap, though. It seems to be very popular.”

Donwell’s orchards produced excellent cider, which was obviously a major draw for many of their guests.

Mrs. Hodges nodded. “We should have enough. Mr. Knightley instructed Mr. Larkins to bring in several casks of ale from the Crown to supplement the cider.”

“And where is Larkins?”

“In the stables. Trying to sort out the horses and vehicles.”

Emma sighed. “What a bother for all of you. When he does come in, could you ask him to—”

The door from the stable yard swung open, admitting both Larkins and George.

She smiled at her husband. “Hiding out from the guests in the stables already, are we?”

“It seemed the sensible thing to do. Emma, did we really need to invite half the inhabitants of the county? I doubt many of them even knew Mrs. Elton or set foot in Highbury’s church.”

“I’m sorry, dearest. They just showed up.”

Mrs. Hodges muttered her dissatisfaction before bustling off to confer with Serle, who was preparing a large pot of chocolate on the abbey’s lamentably old-fashioned stove.

“And how goes the battle, Mr. Larkins?” asked Emma. “Have you managed to properly sort out the stables?”

“Aye, missus. The lads from Randalls have been a great help, and James is lending a hand,” he replied, his blunt speech faintly tinged with a brogue. “It’s naught we cannot handle.”

Larkins was the very definition of dependable, and his skillful management of Donwell’s lands had greatly eased the burden on George. There had apparently been some unfortunate mutterings around the village when he’d first been hired, because he was an Irish immigrant—although he’d lived in England since he was a boy—and a Catholic to boot. But the man’s plainspoken honesty and his dedication to all things Donwell, including its tenants, had finally won over the suspicious locals.

“Thankfully, the commotion is only for one afternoon,” George said. “So peace and quiet should return by sundown.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Emma teased. “I suspect many of our guests have every intention of staying for dinner.”

Mrs. Hodges and Serle, who were arranging trays of tea biscuits and meringues, jerked their heads up. They wore equal expressions of alarm.

Emma waved her hands. “I’m joking.”

She hoped.

“George, how is Mr. Elton?” she asked. “The poor man. Such a dreadful experience, having to oversee the funeral of his own wife.”

“The curate from St. Albans has fortunately relieved him of the necessary duties. In fact, Mr. Elton and Mr. Suckling should be here momentarily. They both wished to spend some time at the graveside.”

“Then we should go up,” Emma said. “Mr. Larkins, could you see that extra chairs are placed on the lawn? I’m trying to encourage some of the young people to go outside. The great hall is terribly crowded.”

“Aye, Mrs. Knightley.”

Emma made one more check with Mrs. Hodges and then allowed George to escort her upstairs.

“What a great deal of trouble for you, my dear,” her husband said as they climbed the shallow set of stairs that led to the service corridor.

“Much more so for the staff. They are all to be commended for pulling this increasingly absurd affair together so quickly. And Larkins is an absolute treasure.”

He stopped her partway down the old stone corridor. “You’re the treasure, my love,” he said before pressing a lingering kiss to her lips.

When footsteps sounded at the other end of the passage, they parted. A Randalls footman hurried by with an empty tray of sherry glasses, giving them a harried nod.

“Really, George, how scandalous,” she said. “Kissing in front of the servants. Whatever will they think?”

“I suspect they’re too busy to notice,” he replied as they began to make their way toward the front of the house.

“How was the funeral? It sounds like all went as well as could be expected.”

“It did. The church was quite crowded.”

Emma, naturally, did not attend, nor did Mrs. Weston. Ladies did not participate in funerals, although in the country it wasn’t unusual for the local folk, both men and women, to go to the church service.

She touched the black silk scarf tied around her husband’s arm. “You’re still wearing your own scarf. I take it you left Mr. Elton’s funeral memento in the carriage?”

“He did not distribute any funeral mementos.”

“To no one?” she asked, amazed.

“No.”

“What about Mr. Suckling?”

“As far as I know, neither man gave funeral mementos to anyone.”

It was customary to give mementos to family and friends of the deceased. Depending on the financial standing of the family—and Mr. Elton was quite plump in the pocket, thanks to Mrs. Elton—black silk scarfs or armbands were often given out, as well as black or white gloves. Black silk hatbands were sometimes distributed, as well. Gifts and items of clothing were also provided to the family’s servants, who were expected to observe mourning along with their master.

Emma frowned. “Mr. Elton is generally very punctilious about funeral etiquette.”

“Perhaps he feared he would not have enough for all those who attended. Death by murder was all but certain to draw a crowd. Most coming for the wrong reasons,” he dryly finished.

“I cannot believe Mrs. Elton would approve of so frugal a state of affairs. She is no doubt looking down—or up—from wherever she is, mortified at such cheeseparing ways.”

“Emma,” he replied in a long-suffering tone.

She crinkled her nose in silent apology. “What about the procession? I know the vicarage is but a few steps from the church, but they could easily bring the casket in a proper procession by the lane to the lych-gate.”

“No procession, either, I’m afraid.”

Emma began to feel more than simply astonished. Although she and the vicar’s wife had little appreciation for each other—well, no appreciation, if one were honest—the poor woman deserved better than such an unceremonious exit from life.

“I cannot believe it, George. How do you account for it?”

“I cannot.”

“Mrs. Elton would have hated it. You know how much she liked to make a show of things, and this was her final opportunity to do so.”

His mouth twitched. “Indeed.”

“You may laugh at me all you like, but I cannot help but wonder what Mrs. Suckling thought of it. Did she remain at the vicarage? Do you know if she’s coming to Donwell with Mr. Elton and Mr. Suckling?”

“Mrs. Suckling did not make the journey from London.”

Emma came to a halt. “Mrs. Elton’s own sister didn’t come?”

He took her elbow and walked. “If you wish for more details, I suggest you speak to Harriet or the Cox sisters. They were conversing at some length after the service. I’m sure they can provide you with a much more detailed account than I could.”

“That makes no sense. Harriet and the Cox sisters do not get on.”

Nothing seemed to be making any sense.

George steered her into the long gallery. “Mr. Elton and Mr. Suckling will be arriving very soon. We should be there to receive them.”

“Of course.”

Still, she intended to speak to Harriet as soon as possible. Her husband had a legion of estimable qualities, but the ability to describe interesting events was not one of them.

A few guests had wandered into the long gallery, escaping the crush in the great hall. With its splendid view of the gardens, the gallery was a peaceful retreat in the oldest part of the abbey.

When they passed through the old stone doorcase of the great hall, Emma gasped in dismay.

The most impressive room in the house, the great hall was a reminder of Donwell’s antique origins, boasting a timbered ceiling and an intricately carved ancient wooden screen. The magnificent space was normally imbued with a noble silence and the weight of history.

Today, though, its quiet nobility had been shattered by the mighty din of a crowd that had grown larger in the short time she’d been belowstairs.

“Oh, dear,” was all she managed.

Even George looked stunned.

Apparently, Mrs. Elton’s funeral was now akin to a national holiday. A gaggle of children were playing hide-and-seek among the trestle tables, and there were even a few infants in their mothers’ arms and toddlers in leading strings.

She grabbed her husband’s arm. “George, whatever will Mr. Elton think of such an unseemly commotion?”

“We can only hope he’ll be pleased that so many of his parishioners have come to pay their respects.”

She eyed the guests jostling about the refreshment tables. “That is indeed an optimistic view,” she said as she watched young Arthur Otway weave an unsteady path through the crowd. She could only assume he’d already enjoyed copious amounts of the Crown’s ale.

They made their way through the expansive space. Emma was rather amused, if unsurprised, by how many people she didn’t recognize. Her life, even after marriage, was still confined to a small circle of friends and acquaintances, and she rarely moved beyond the confines of the village. Her father objected to travel of any sort and had once claimed that he’d barely survived Emma’s wedding trip to the seaside, even though Isabella and John had come down from London to stay with him.

George took her arm. “Elton has arrived.”

Through the tall windows that overlooked the drive, she could see a handsome town carriage pulling up to the portico—Mr. Suckling’s, no doubt.

By the time she and George reached the front entrance, Mr. Elton had disembarked. To Emma’s surprise, he turned to hand down Harriet, who was followed by Robert and Mr. Suckling.

While George greeted the men, Emma took her friend by the hand. “Harriet, you are looking quite flushed. It’s so dreadfully warm today, is it not? Are you well?”

Harriet was indeed looking out of sorts, which was unusual. Unless encountering an upsetting circumstance—like a corpse in the church—she was a remarkably even-tempered girl. Yet today she seemed positively flustered.

“It’s just rather warm, as you say.” She turned to Mr. Elton and dredged up a smile. “It was so kind of you to take us up in Mr. Suckling’s carriage. And kind of Mr. Suckling, as well.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” Mr. Suckling replied, “so your thanks are not necessary.”

Harriet flushed an even brighter red, while poor Robert went stiff as a plank.

Mr. Elton shook his head in disapproval. “Horace, one could hardly expect Mr. and Mrs. Martin to walk all the way to Donwell in this heat. Especially when they have been so kind to us.”

“I’m sure they do it every day. It’s the country, after all.”

“We didn’t mean to put you out, Mr. Suckling,” Robert said in a stiff tone. “And we appreciate the kindness.”

“Mr. Martin, it is you and your wife who have been so kind,” Mr. Elton earnestly replied before turning to Emma. “Your dear friend has been such a blessing and a support to me through this entire ordeal, Mrs. Knightley, especially during that dreadful inquest.”

Given the unfortunate history between Harriet and Mr. Elton, it was more than slightly ironic that he was now turning to the young woman for comfort. Emma could only imagine what his dearly departed would have had to say about such a development.

“You have had a very difficult day,” Emma replied, “and you should not be standing out in this heat. And you are most welcome, too, Mr. Suckling.”

“Much obliged,” Mr. Suckling tersely replied. “Can’t imagine why we’re standing about and gabbing in the first place.”

George quickly led the dratted man into the hall. The rest of them followed, although Robert immediately excused himself and disappeared into the crowd.

Mr. Suckling took off his hat—one banded with a very handsome piece of black satin, Emma noticed—and handed it to a footman.

“Well,” he said to George. “This is quite the pile you have here. The Knightleys have obviously done splendidly for themselves over the years.”

Emma blinked. Mr. Elton looked pained, while Harriet . . . wasn’t paying attention. She was craning up, as if searching for someone in the general melee.

“Horace, what a thing to say,” Mr. Elton admonished. “You will embarrass Mr. Knightley.”

“I’m simply expressing my admiration. Smallridge would like this place, you know. Puts me in mind of his estate, although Pomphrey Manor is certainly more modern.”

“The Smallridges are good friends of Mr. and Mrs. Suckling,” Mr. Elton said. “You may recall.”

“Yes, I do recall,” replied Emma.

It would be impossible to forget, since Mrs. Elton had talked incessantly about the Smallridges and her other wealthy acquaintances.

“I would be happy to show you about the abbey,” George tactfully said to Mr. Suckling. “Despite Mr. Elton’s protestations, you cannot offend me by admiring my family’s home.”

Mr. Suckling jabbed the vicar in the arm. “There, Philip, you are much too nice about these things. Knightley knows what I am about. Gentlemen of our standing always do.”

“Then I shall be happy to give you a tour after you and Mr. Elton have something to eat and drink,” George said, glancing at Emma.

Recalled to her duties, she glanced about the hall. Unfortunately, every seat was taken.

“Mr. Elton, I’m afraid it’s rather hideously crowded in here,” she said. “Might I suggest that you join my father and Mrs. and Miss Bates in the east drawing room? They are well set up there, and the room is both quiet and cool. Mrs. Weston is with them, too.”

The arrangement served both her father and Miss Bates. The poor woman was still in a fragile state, unable to converse with any degree of coherence. Keeping her away from the other guests seemed both necessary and wise.

“My father is eager to speak with you, Mr. Elton,” she added. “He very much wished to attend the funeral but did not feel quite up to it.”

Mr. Elton seized her hand. “Your father is a great friend to all of us. And so charitable to Miss Bates in her time of need.”

Mr. Suckling scoffed. “That bloody woman. Mark my words. She may play the henwit, but she had something to do with Augusta’s death.”

Emma’s patience with the man ran out. “That is a ridiculous assertion.”

“This is not the best place to conduct a conversation of this nature,” George said in austere tones. “Or conduct it at all.”

Especially since Miss Prince and Miss Richardson, teachers at Mrs. Goddard’s school, stood only feet away, straining to overhear.

The vicar grimaced. “Quite right, Mr. Knightley. Our dear Miss Bates is the kindest woman one could ever hope to find. It is, of course, utter nonsense to imagine that she could ever hurt anyone.”

When Mr. Suckling started to argue, George took him by the elbow. “Allow me to escort you to the refreshment table. We have some excellent cider from Donwell’s own apple orchard. Very refreshing in all this heat.”

“Very well,” Mr. Suckling grumbled. “Are you coming, Philip?”

“I must pay my respects to Mr. Woodhouse first. I will find you later.”

“Have it your way. Ah, I see Weston, so I’ll have a chat with him. He seems a sensible man, unlike so many in this benighted village.” He smirked rather unpleasantly. “Present company excepted, of course,” he added to George.

With a bland smile, George led Mr. Suckling away. Emma breathed a sigh of relief, but only after she had directed an admonishing frown at Miss Prince and Miss Richardson, who finally took the hint and moved off.

Mr. Elton sighed. “You must forgive my brother-in-law, Mrs. Knightley. He is very worried about Selina. She’s in a delicate condition, you know.”

“I did not know,” she replied. “And, of course, that perfectly explains Mr. Suckling’s . . . fretfulness.”

Emma didn’t think there was any excuse for the man’s bad behavior, but pregnancy certainly explained why Mrs. Suckling had not made the trip to Highbury.

She smiled at Harriet, who’d not said a word since entering the house. “Will you come to the east drawing room with us, dear? It will be much more pleasant than this crush.”

The girl gave a visible start. “Ah, I think not, Mrs. Knightley. I . . . I believe I must find Robert.” She then disappeared into the crowd.

“Poor Mrs. Martin,” said the vicar. “She is very affected by my dear Augusta’s death. The loss is a terrible blow—mostly for me, of course, but also for Highbury. How will we ever recover from the loss of such a magnificent woman, Mrs. Knightley?”

Since Emma felt quite beyond making an appropriate response to his observation, she took refuge in sympathetic murmurs as she led him away.