Murder in Highbury (Emma Knightley Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 20

C HAPTER 20

E mma gloomily buttered her toast. She’d woken up with a headache, no appetite, and the conviction that she’d been very foolish.

She and George had rarely exchanged a cross word since their wedding day. They’d had the occasional brangle—some habits were a bit too hard to break—but they’d never truly argued. That is, until she’d brought up the one person who annoyed him more than any other—Frank Churchill.

Not that she entirely disagreed with George’s assessment of Frank’s character. Nevertheless, taken in full measure, she thought Frank to be a good man, if not quite worthy of Jane. Unfortunately, Emma’s beloved failed to share that view, a point made clear when he did not return to the drawing room. George had eventually joined her in bed, but very late and in an exceedingly annoying way, falling asleep the instant his head hit the pillow. And he was already gone when she awoke, out for an early morning ride.

At the other end of the dining room table, her father glanced up from his gazette. “Emma, you’ve barely touched your toast. Are you feeling unwell?”

She forced a bright smile. “Indeed no, Father. You know I am never unwell.”

He perused her with anxiety. “You are too pale, my dear. Perhaps you should retire back to bed.”

Emma reached for the orange marmalade, slathered it on her toast, and then bit it with a show of enthusiasm.

“I was simply thinking about what we should serve for dinner tonight,” she replied after managing to choke the toast down. “We must make it a bit of a celebration, now that Frank and Jane have arrived. Miss Bates will enjoy that.”

Her father continued to eye her before finally turning to address the footman. “Simon, please ask Serle to prepare a bowl of gruel for Miss Emma.”

Simon cast her a sympathetic glance before exiting the room. No one in Hartfield, except her father, willingly consumed Serle’s gruel. Apparently, quarreling with one’s husband left one looking so pulled that drastic measures were seen to be necessary.

When she heard a step in the hall a few minutes later, she grimaced. Serle must have had a pot of gruel on the hob, ready and waiting to torture her. Well, she supposed it was a fitting punishment for allowing the sun to set without attempting to make peace with her loved one.

The door opened, and her loved one himself entered the room. When George paused for a moment, his expression inscrutable, Emma had the horrible sense that he was about to beat a hasty retreat. Instead, he quietly greeted her father before coming to join her.

She forced a bright smile. “Good morning, dearest. I hope you enjoyed your ride.”

“I did, and it had the added benefit of giving me a chance to think.”

Drat. He was obviously still annoyed with her.

She affected a light tone. “May I ask what you were thinking about?”

His expression finally broke, and he gave her a charmingly rueful smile. Emma felt the oddest sensation in the middle of her chest, like a ray of sunlight had just pierced her heart.

“My idiotic behavior last night.” He leaned down, dropping his voice to a murmur. “Forgive me, Emma. I was a jealous fool.”

When he kissed her cheek, that little ray turned into a bright beam of light.

“I was silly, too,” she admitted. “And I’m sorry if I said anything at Randalls that I shouldn’t have.”

“Is everything all right, Emma?” her father asked.

“Everything is fine. George is telling me what a splendid ride he had.”

The door opened, and Simon reentered, carrying a steaming bowl on a platter. “Your gruel, Mrs. Knightley.”

George cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Father thinks I look a trifle peaked,” she explained. “He thought a bowl of gruel would be helpful.”

“My poor darling,” he said, trying not to laugh.

“Well, I’m feeling much better now,” she said. “You may put it on the sideboard, Simon.”

“Emma, it would do you good,” her father exclaimed. “Please try to eat some.”

“It’s odd,” said George as he took his seat. “As I was riding, I thought I would like nothing better than a bowl of Serle’s excellent gruel. You may put it at my place, Simon.”

“Are you sure, sir?” the footman asked, sounding slightly incredulous.

“Quite.”

Emma suddenly felt rather misty. Very little could prove a husband’s love more than throwing himself on the altar of Serle’s hideous gruel.

Fortunately, another interruption spared them both. Thomas, the junior footman, entered the room.

“Mr. Knightley, Constable Sharpe has come to call,” he said.

She and George exchanged surprised glances at such an early visit.

Her husband stood. “I’ll come immediately.”

When he moved to pull back her chair, Emma lifted her eyebrows. “You want me to go with you?”

“If you have questions, you’ll be able to ask Sharpe directly.”

“He’ll not be pleased by my presence, I’m sure.”

“Since I trust your judgment considerably more than his, I find myself unmoved by that consideration.”

“George, if you don’t stop being so kind, I will surely burst into tears,” she said as he showed her into the corridor.

“My dear, you will alarm Constable Sharpe if you do so.”

She smothered a laugh.

The constable, waiting in the entrance hall, predictably looked unhappy to see her.

“Mrs. Knightley,” he tersely said. “Mr. Knightley, if I may have a moment of your time.”

“My wife and I will see you in the study,” George calmly replied.

The constable fell in behind them, muttering under his breath.

George ushered them into his office and seated Emma. The constable, however, remained standing.

“This news must be of some import to bring you out so early in the day,” George said.

“Indeed, sir. Mr. Elton came knocking on my door first thing.” The constable paused with great significance.

“And?”

“We’ve finally got him, Mr. Knightley, dead to rights,” Mr. Sharpe triumphantly stated.

Emma sucked in a startled breath. “Him?”

“You have a suspect in custody?” her husband asked.

“I have the murderer in custody. It’s Dick Curtis, a farm laborer.”

Emma opened her eyes wide at George, but he shot her a warning glance. Clearly, he didn’t wish her to reveal that she’d seen the incriminating note.

“Are you sure it was Dick Curtis who killed Mrs. Elton?” she asked.

The constable bristled. “Of course. As I said, we have him dead to rights.”

George held up a restraining hand. “Why would Dick Curtis murder Mrs. Elton? Do you have any evidence?”

“All that I need, Mr. Knightley. As for motive, it was filthy revenge.”

“I would be grateful for a full explanation, Constable. Not just some cryptic remarks,” George said, growing a trifle exasperated.

Mr. Sharpe tugged on his vest, looking self-satisfied. “Curtis had a grudge against Mr. Elton. Even sent him a threatening note—nasty one, too. I told Mr. Elton he should have shown it to me as soon as he got it, but he said he didn’t want to get Dick in trouble. I said, ‘You’ve got a kind heart, Vicar. But this is murder.’ ”

Emma almost rolled her eyes at his theatrics. “The threatening note was made against Mr. Elton, correct?”

He nodded. “I just said so.”

“Then why murder Mrs. Elton?”

“As I stated, ma’am, filthy rev—”

George cut him off. “Why did Mr. Elton specifically call your attention to the note this morning?”

“He heard what happened last night at the Crown,” Sharpe replied, as if that explained everything.

George looked severe. “Mr. Sharpe, I would be grateful if you would clearly and completely detail the sequence of events—from the beginning.”

“Yes, it all seems rather muddled,” said Emma.

Mr. Sharpe gave a stiff little bow. “My apologies. I don’t mean to muddle Mrs. Knightley.”

This time, Emma did roll her eyes. Thankfully, she supposed, the constable failed to notice.

“A few weeks back,” he said, “Mr. Elton received a nasty note from Dick Curtis, all but threatening to kill him.”

When George shot her a quick glance, Emma gave a tiny nod of confirmation. The crude note could be read, if one were so inclined, as a death threat. Certainly, it contained ill intent.

“Do you know why Dick threatened the vicar?” George asked.

“Because he’d applied to be put on the parish poor roll, and Mr. Elton had turned him down.”

“Did Mr. Elton show the note to anyone else?”

“No, sir. He didn’t wish to embarrass Curtis.” The constable shook his head. “Poor Mr. Elton now realizes what a fatal mistake that was, given recent events.”

To Emma, it still seemed rather a longbow to draw. Ugly notes were a far cry from murder, especially for a man who’d never caused any trouble before. “Do you have any other evidence against Curtis?”

“I do,” he triumphantly said. “Dick was at the Crown last night, and in his cups. He was railing and carrying on something bad, full of inflammatory remarks about Mr. Elton. Mrs. Stokes finally kicked him and his mates out into the street.”

“Remarks about Mr. Elton not putting him on the poor roll?” asked George.

“Indeed, and he was using some very ugly language.”

George shook his head. “But that is hardly definitive, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, but then Dick said clear as day in front of everyone that he was glad Mrs. Elton was dead. That she was just as nasty and mean as her husband, and she had got everything she deserved.” He shook his head. “The villain didn’t even care that everyone in the taproom heard him, including Mr. Elton’s groom and Mr. Cole’s coachman.”

As greatly as Emma wished for Miss Bates to be cleared, she couldn’t help but feel skeptical about Sharpe’s conclusion. If Dick Curtis was indeed the murderer, his actions struck her as incredibly foolish.

“Do you know if Dick ever had dealings with Mrs. Elton?” she asked.

Mr. Sharpe addressed his answer to George, which was quite annoying. “I asked Mr. Elton that very same question when he brought me the note this morning. He said he couldn’t be sure.”

“Is Mr. Elton also of the opinion that Dick Curtis murdered his wife?” asked George.

“He is, sir. When Mr. Elton refused to put him on the roll, Dick turned . . .” He paused, as if searching for the right word. “Menacing. Yes, that was what he said. Then he got the note a few days later.”

George tapped a finger to his lips. “Why did Mr. Elton turn him down in the first place?”

“I didn’t ask, but everyone knows Dick’s a layabout.”

“Perhaps, but Mrs. Elton had nothing to do with parish business,” Emma objected. “Why murder her and not Mr. Elton?”

“It was clearly a crime of opportunity,” Sharpe replied in a condescending tone. “Dick must have seen Mrs. Elton go into the church and followed her. Maybe he tried to get her to change the vicar’s mind. But when she wouldn’t, he decided to steal her necklace. She fought back, and he killed her.”

Emma had seen Dick Curtis in the village on more the one occasion. Despite his disability, he was a burly and fit man. “Why, then, the need to use the candlestick to kill her? As a farmhand, he was naturally quite strong.”

The constable’s expression suggested the very question itself was offensive. “Mayhap he was injured in the tussle for the necklace. Or he wanted to throw us off the scent by using a weapon, like he didn’t have the strength to kill her. ” He tugged on his vest again. “Like a woman had done it,” he pointedly added.

Emma scoffed. “But that would require a degree of forethought. Which suggests it was not a crime of opportunity.”

“Now, see here, Mrs. Knightley—”

When George loudly cleared his throat, the constable subsided with a grumble.

“I think the more likely scenario, if one accepts that Curtis did indeed murder Mrs. Elton—” George started.

“He did it, Mr. Knightley,” Mr. Sharpe interrupted.

George ignored him, looking at Emma instead. “If he did it, then I think it possible that his damaged hand forced him to use the candlestick to strike the final blow.”

An image of Mrs. Elton sprang into her mind, the ugly marks on the woman’s throat in high relief. Would a man with such an injury have the strength to do such a thing or do it with one hand?

“Perhaps,” she admitted. “But then why would he make such incriminating statements in public? It would be incredibly foolhardy.”

“Criminals aren’t generally known for their brains, Mrs. Knightley,” Mr. Sharpe said. “And he was in his cups.”

“Very much into his cups if he were to all but confess to a murder in a public setting,” she sarcastically replied.

“Where is Curtis now?” George asked.

“Locked up in the cellar at the Crown. But as soon as we’re finished, I’ll be transporting him to the gaol in Guildford.”

“Surely that’s premature,” Emma exclaimed.

“Mr. Elton disagrees, ma’am. He’s very perturbed that the villain has been allowed to roam about Highbury, a danger to everyone.”

“I would like to speak to Curtis before you move him,” said George.

Constable Sharpe gave a vigorous shake of the head. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Knightley, but if you wish to speak to Dick, you can do so at the county gaol. The arrangements for transport have already been made.”

“Good heavens,” Emma said. “What’s the rush? If the magistrate wishes to speak to the accused, I cannot imagine any justifiable impediment to that.”

“Mr. Knightley can speak to him as much as he wants after he’s safely stowed away,” the constable huffily replied. “Dr. Hughes agrees with an immediate removal, for the safety of all in Highbury.”

She frowned. “This is ridiculous. How can Dick be a danger if he’s already locked up in the cellar?”

George’s gaze flickered her way, containing a clear warning.

Let me handle this.

“So you spoke to Dr. Hughes before coming to Hartfield?” he asked the constable in a bland voice.

Mr. Sharpe lifted his chin with pugnacious disdain. “It seemed the proper order of things. He is the coroner.”

“And I am the magistrate.”

“Indeed, sir, so you are surely aware that the poultry thief has struck again. The sooner I have Dick safely stowed away, the sooner I can go after that blighter.”

Emma found herself unable to hold her tongue. “One would almost think you believe the theft of chickens to be equal to murder.”

Mr. Sharpe glowered at her. “This thief is becoming bolder, ma’am. Why, he even raided the doctor’s chicken coop night before last.”

She sighed. “I suppose that explains our coroner’s eagerness to dispose of Dick Curtis.”

The doctor was a devoted fancier of several rare breeds of hens. When not attending to his patients—or dead bodies—he was often to be found out in his gardens, cooing over his hens with paternal affection.

The constable turned his shoulder on her to address George. “I’ve got reports from some neighboring farms, as well, including one in your parish, sir. Donwell, that is.”

“I am aware that Donwell is my parish,” George dryly replied.

“Well, who knows what will happen next if that fellow is not brought to heel?”

“A shortage of eggs, I would imagine,” Emma commented.

Her husband studiously avoided looking at her, although she saw his mouth twitch. “Very well, Constable. You may transport the prisoner. Please make the necessary arrangements for me to speak with Curtis tomorrow morning.”

Mr. Sharpe threw Emma a triumphant glance. “I will be happy to do so. Now, if that will be all, sir, I’ll be on my way.”

George stayed seated, simply giving him a cool nod.

The constable looked slightly disconcerted but mustered an awkward bow. “Mrs. Knightley.”

Emma gave him a smile that was mostly teeth. “I’m sure you can find your way out, Mr. Sharpe.”

When he’d departed, she blew out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know how you can be so calm, George. That dreadful man has gone behind your back from the beginning.”

“Yes, I did notice that,” he said with a trace of sarcasm. “You may be sure I will be speaking with Dr. Hughes about proper procedure, as well as the inappropriateness of civilians interfering in policing matters.”

She widened her eyes. “I hope you’re not speaking of me.”

“This time, I’m referring to Mr. Elton.”

“I can understand Mr. Elton’s feelings, but one would think that the theft of Dr. Hughes’s chickens—no matter how excellent they may be—is of less import than finding Mrs. Elton’s real killer.”

George tilted his head to study her. “How can we be certain Dick isn’t the killer?”

“We cannot, but it doesn’t make sense. And I would bet a bob that Mrs. Elton never exchanged one word with the man.”

“Revenge is always a motive, and killing a loved one—not to mention stealing an expensive necklace—is about as much revenge as one can get.”

“About that necklace, George. It has yet to be found, or connected to Dick.”

“There will need to be a search, and I intend to do that myself.”

Emma perked up. “Do you need help?”

“I will take one of the grooms. I think it best you remain here to protect Hartfield from the poultry thief.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous. And I still think Dick is lacking a motive. Yes, Mr. Elton turned him down, but the poor fellow simply could have come to you instead. Or he could have applied to the full vestry council when next it met, could he not?”

“I will be raising that very issue with him tomorrow, I assure you. But it’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility that Dick was the killer. He clearly hates our vicar and obviously had no great love for Mrs. Elton. It may be, as Sharpe says, that an opportunity presented itself and he stumbled into the rest.”

“But to then make such blatantly incriminating statements to others? I don’t know the man, but is he truly that foolish?”

“He’s not ever struck me as such, but poverty and despair can drive one to do desperate things.”

That was an undeniable truth. “I can’t help but feel sorry for him, even though it would make life easier if he were the guilty party. Miss Bates would no longer be under suspicion.”

“And life could begin to return to normal.” He rose from his desk. “As much as I esteem Miss Bates, the notion that she will be spending most evenings at Hartfield for the foreseeable future does give me pause.”

Emma adopted a puzzled expression. “Whatever can you mean, dearest?”

He laughed and then came round his desk to give her a parting kiss.

“When may we expect to see you again?” she asked after returning his embrace.

“After I conduct a search of Dick’s quarters and likely hiding places, I intend to stop and have a word with Dr. Hughes.”

Emma held up a hand. “He may have taken to his bed. His beloved chickens, you know. I suggest you take smelling salts.”

“Now who’s being ridiculous?”

She pointed to herself.

He briefly cupped her cheek. “Stay out of trouble, will you?”

“Always.”

A masculine snort was her only reply.