Murder in Highbury (Emma Knightley Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 11

C HAPTER 11

T he yellow drawing room was Emma’s favorite. The walls were hung with striped silk wallpaper in the loveliest shade of pale lemon, and the settees were covered in matching shades as they flanked either side of the handsome Adam fireplace. Comfortable overstuffed chairs were arranged in cozy groupings, better to view the contents of the curio cabinets and bookcases, which held various family collections—medals, antique books, rare seashells, vibrant corals, and other curiosities carefully gathered over the generations.

Even better was the lovely view out the tall windows, which overlooked the lush green lawns and the fine orchards stretching down to a rippling stream in the distance. In her many visits to Donwell over the years, Emma had come to love its quiet excellences—just as she’d come to love its master. The abbey was as much a reflection of George and his character as it was a great house that had stood the test of time with quiet dignity.

Today, however, the room was anything but quiet, but rather a scene of stormy emotions and a flood of tears from Miss Bates.

“Ma’am, do not cry so,” Emma said, crouching in front of her. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

Emma’s father had joined Miss Bates on the settee. “You must take care, dear lady. I heard children coughing when we arrived. Emma, what was Mr. Knightley thinking to invite so many people?”

“He didn’t invite all of them, Father. They simply appeared here.”

A distressed Mr. Elton hovered nearby. “I am to blame. I allowed myself to impose on Mr. Knightley’s generosity in hosting the reception.”

This particular crisis was actually the vicar’s fault, having been precipitated by an unfortunate question to Miss Bates.

Initially, the conversation had proved uneventful. There had been a brief discussion of the funeral service, but also much talk of the weather and various people’s health. Mrs. Bates had snoozed peacefully in her chair, and even Miss Bates had seemed calm as the men weighted the merits of appropriate comestibles at a funeral reception.

But then Mr. Elton had made the fatal error. “Ma’am,” he said to Miss Bates, “I have been meaning to ask you a question, if I may.”

“Indeed, of course. A question. Whatever can it be? I wonder.”

“Before my wife departed the house on that final, tragic day, she made a slight mention of something she wished to discuss with you—something beyond the arrangements for the altar linens. While it seemed a topic of some import, she rushed away so as not to keep you waiting. I don’t wish to pry, but can you tell me what you were to discuss? It would give me great comfort if I could fulfill any of Augusta’s last wishes.”

During his little speech Miss Bates had gone terribly pale and tense. “I . . . I cannot . . . I mean, that is to say, I do not know whatever you can be referring to, sir. I . . . I do not know what she may have wished to discuss.”

“I do not wish to cause you distress,” Mr. Elton had hastily replied. “But I was so struck by Augusta’s manner that day. And since you were the last person she was to meet, I thought—”

At that point, Miss Bates had burst into tears, and Emma had now spent five minutes trying to calm her. A flustered Mr. Elton had offered—helpfully or unhelpfully, depending on one’s view—to speak with her at another time. That had only made Miss Bates weep harder.

Growing exasperated, Emma retrieved her father’s smelling salts and employed them. Miss Bates gasped, hiccuping, as she tried to catch her breath. Clearly, this was no simple case of overwrought nerves. What was this unknown issue, and why did it upset Miss Bates so greatly? Once again, it struck her as decidedly odd that the two ladies had decided to meet in so furtive a manner in the church.

“Please, Miss Bates,” she said. “Your mother will be worried if she sees you in such a state.”

Mrs. Bates, thankfully, had snoozed through the commotion. Still, her daughter made a visible effort to control herself, although tears continued to flow through incoherent apologies.

Mr. Elton touched Emma’s shoulder. “Perhaps I should go. I have no wish to cause dear Miss Bates any further distress, and I regret that I asked her such an indelicate question in the first place.”

Sighing, Emma rose to her feet. “That might be best. If you could perhaps find Mr. Perry, I would be forever in your debt.”

He grasped her free hand. “I will search for him with the greatest of diligence. And if there is any other way I can serve, you have simply to ask.”

“Just Mr. Perry, sir. And please get yourself something to eat. I’m sure you’re quite worn out.”

“You are too kind, madam. You think only of others and not of yourself.”

“Yes, yes,” Emma’s father cut in before she could reply. “But please do hurry, Mr. Elton. It is vital that you find Perry immediately.”

The vicar beat a hasty retreat.

“I thought he would never go,” her father said with an indignant huff.

“It’s been a very difficult day for him,” Emma replied in a soothing tone. “He is not himself.”

“He was very insensitive to Miss Bates.”

Miss Bates wiped her nose and drew in a shuddering breath. “You mustn’t worry about me, Mr. Woodhouse. For me to act in such a way . . . quite shocking . . . really. I feel terrible for Mr. Elton. To distress you all . . . I am qui-quite ashamed of myself.”

“Emma, pour Miss Bates a sherry, just a small one to steady her nerves,” Father ordered. “And check on Mrs. Bates, as well, to see if she is in need of something to calm her nerves.”

She eyed her father, still amazed by his newly decisive manner.

“Don’t dawdle, my dear,” he added.

After fetching a glass of sherry from the sideboard, Emma tiptoed up to Mrs. Bates, who was still asleep.

Lucky her.

When Mr. Perry hurried into the room, Emma expelled a sigh of relief. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”

“Mr. Elton said it was an emergency.”

The poor man looked harried, which was not to be wondered at. Even on a solemn occasion such as a funeral reception, her father kept him hopping.

“Perry, you must attend to Miss Bates,” Father exclaimed. “Her nerves are in tatters, and she will fall ill.”

“Surely not. Miss Bates is always so healthy. In fact, Mr. Woodhouse, I was certain I’d been called to attend you.”

“I’m perfectly well, but you must see to Miss Bates.”

Emma and Mr. Perry exchanged a startled glance. The words perfectly and well were not ones that normally existed side by side in her parent’s lexicon.

“Father, I must attend to the other guests,” she said as the apothecary began to speak to Miss Bates. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

He gave her a distracted wave. “As you wish, my dear.”

After slipping from the room—and breathing a massive sigh of relief—Emma decided to search for her husband and Harriet. She was a trifle worried about her friend. It was clear that something had distressed her, beyond the natural emotions generated by the occasion.

When she reached the great hall, she couldn’t help wincing at the din. She’d been to Christmas parties more solemn than this occasion—although, to be fair, the lugubrious note at some of their holiday festivities was usually due to the behavior of her own relations.

Going up on her toes, she searched for George and Harriet in the throng, but neither seemed to be present.

A peal of laughter from a nearby table caught her attention.

Drat.

Anne Cox was holding forth with her sister, along with the Otway girls and Miss Bickerton. They were clearly gossiping like mad and having too much fun. Enough was enough.

When she marched over to their table, Miss Bickerton scrambled to her feet. The others looked rather shamefaced, except for the unrepentant Anne.

“Thank you for joining us this afternoon, ladies,” Emma said. “I’m sure Mr. Elton and Mr. Suckling are grateful that you came to pay your respects in their time of profound grief .”

“Thank you, Mrs. Knightley,” Susan rushed to say. “It was ever so kind of you to have us, and of course, we wished to pay our respects to poor Mr. Elton.”

The others bobbed their heads, looking rather like a bevy of quails, as they expressed a garbled mix of thanks and sympathies.

Anne interrupted them with an affected laugh. “La, girls. There’s no need to babble. I’m sure Mrs. Knightley can hardly make out a word.”

Miss Bickerton, a parlor boarder at Mrs. Goddard’s school, cast Emma a tentative smile. “I do apologize, Mrs. Knightley. We don’t mean to kick up a fuss.”

“You seemed to be having quite a lively conversation,” Emma replied. “May I enquire as to the topic?”

“It was nothing, Mrs. Knightley. Just a bit of silly gossip,” Miss Bickerton replied.

“Perhaps this is not the best occasion for silly gossip.”

They all looked decidedly uncomfortable—except for Anne, who was her usual smug self.

“It wasn’t totally silly gossip, Mrs. Knightley,” Anne said. “It’s tremendously frightening, in fact.”

Emma crossed her arms. “How so?”

Miss Bickerton cast a wary glance around and then leaned forward, as if not wishing to be overheard. “It’s just that some people are saying that Mrs. Elton was murdered by a vengeful spirit. It happened in a church, after all. Right on top of one of the burial vaults.”

Not this again.

“And why would a vengeful spirit wish to rise up and murder the vicar’s wife?” When Caroline Otway started to answer, Emma shot up a hand. “Never mind. I do not wish to hear it. Who is spreading this tale?”

Anne shrugged. “Just people.”

“Which people?”

“Lots of people, I suppose,” Anne replied in a chippy tone. “You know how everyone likes to gossip.”

“I don’t think anyone meant any harm, Mrs. Knightley,” Susan hastened to say. “It’s just so very odd that poor Mrs. Elton was killed in the church in the middle of the day, and yet no one saw or heard a thing. It does sound like something a ghost would do.”

“It’s very strange, you must admit,” added Caroline.

“I admit nothing of the sort. And let me assure you that Mrs. Elton was not killed by a vengeful ghost,” Emma replied in a cool tone. “If I hear one more word of this ridiculous tale from any of you, I will be speaking to your mothers and to Mrs. Goddard. Do I make myself clear?”

That pronouncement caused widespread alarm.

“None of us will say another word, we promise!” exclaimed Miss Bickerton, flapping a hand.

“Thank you.”

Emma turned on her heel and marched off. Annoyed that she’d been drawn into the deranged discussion in the first place, she weighed the merits of quaffing a fortifying glass of wine versus escaping the reception altogether. But the latter would mean abandoning her poor husband, so the former it was to be.

As she was forging her way to the refreshment table, a hand gripped her arm. Emma jumped—her nerves were clearly on edge, as well—and turned to find Harriet, teary-eyed and mussed.

“Good God, Harriet, whatever is the matter?”

“Something dreadful,” her friend dramatically stated. “And I don’t know what to do.”

Repressing a sigh, Emma took her hand and led her from the hall. At this rate, she’d need to keep smelling salts in every room in the house.