Murder in Highbury (Emma Knightley Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 22

C HAPTER 22

W hen Emma rejoined her husband in the drawing room after dinner, he put aside his book and stood.

“Is your father settled for the night?” he asked. “Or is he still fretting about the murderous inclinations of the poultry thief?”

She scowled. “I would dearly love to give Dr. Hughes a piece of my mind for spreading about his idiotic theory these past two days. The entire village has been abuzz with it. Fortunately, I was able to persuade my poor father to drink a glass of ratafia while he reads his book. That should help him sleep, and Simon will check on him in a bit.”

“Then all is well. Now, come sit with me. It’s a beautiful evening, and the fresh air is delightful.”

He drew her to the sofa. Now that her father was in bed, George had dared to open the French doors so they could enjoy the rose-scented breeze drifting in from the gardens. Emma gratefully let go the stresses of the day and drank in the evening’s quiet beauty as dusk descended on the landscape and transformed the oaks into shadows that towered toward the azure-blue sky.

After turning slightly to study her husband, she took in the abstracted frown marking his brow. “What are you thinking about?”

He glanced at her with a quick smile. “I am relishing the chance to spend a quiet evening with my wife. For once, there are no guests in need of reassurance and no crises looming before us.”

“Indeed. We managed to go an entire evening without resorting to smelling salts or restorative glasses of brandy.”

“In my case, sometimes more than one restorative glass,” he dryly replied.

“I confess to being tempted to reach for the smelling salts more than once.”

“Then we must hope those trying days are now behind us, and that life will soon return to normal.”

She waggled a hand. “We can hope that, but is it likely?”

A grimace was his answer.

After a few moments, she gently poked him in the shoulder. “So, you’re not really enjoying the peace and quiet. You’re thinking about the investigation.”

“Yes.”

“Dearest, what part in particular troubles you?”

He lifted his brows. “Why do you think I’m troubled?”

“Any sane person would be. The entire thing has turned into a farce, thanks to our coroner. Besides, I can always tell when you’re troubled or frustrated.”

Since she’d been a major source of frustration for George in times past, Emma had come to recognize the signs.

He kissed her hand before rising to his feet. Despite his claim to the contrary, he had been restless since returning from Donwell before dinner.

After wandering over to the open doors, he braced a hand on the frame and gazed out into the deepening dusk. Emma took a few moments to appreciate her husband’s broad shoulders and tall, masculine physique.

“I suspect you would also feel a certain degree of frustration if you’d spent much of the morning with Dr. Hughes and Constable Sharpe,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Frankly, I barely managed to keep my temper.”

“You’re the magistrate, dearest. You’re not allowed to lose your temper, no matter how silly or irritating people might be.”

His smile was wry as he turned to face her. “A particularly annoying aspect of the position.”

“Can I assume that Constable Sharpe agrees with Dr. Hughes regarding the poultry thief turned cold-blooded killer?”

“Yes, although he resisted the theory for quite some time. Dr. Hughes was not pleased about that.”

Sharpe’s change of view was surprising. “How astonishing. I had not supposed Mr. Sharpe capable of such a sensible view. But he did capitulate, obviously.”

“I believe it stemmed mostly from the fact that he is lacking in credible suspects. He’s even given up on Miss Bates, although not for want of trying. Fortunately, I managed to finally disabuse him of her purported guilt.”

She rolled her eyes. “Then he’s not so sensible, after all, if he could go straight from one silly theory to another.”

“Dr. Hughes didn’t leave him much choice.”

“Has either of them provided an explanation as to why a common poultry thief would even be in the church, much less murdering Mrs. Elton?”

“Sharpe did venture the possibility that the thief was already lurking about the vicarage gardens, preparing to raid the chicken coop.”

“In the middle of the day?” she asked, incredulous.

“I also expressed my skepticism, but Dr. Hughes reminded me that the thief had already mounted a prior attack during the daylight hours.”

Despite her irritation, she couldn’t help but laugh. “Mounted an attack? Did he truly say that?”

“Our coroner does have a flair for the dramatic.”

“Particularly when it comes to his speckled hens. But according to Mr. Weston, that earlier theft was on a farm set back from the road, with the coops behind the barn. The kitchen gardens at the vicarage are easily seen from the lane, the churchyard, and the house.”

“I also raised that point, without success.”

Emma huffed. “Such nonsense. So, his theory is that the thief was lurking about the kitchen gardens, and then what?”

“According to Sharpe, he must have spied Mrs. Elton entering the church and seized the opportunity to rob her.”

“Thus going from stealing chickens to bashing a woman over the head with a brass candlestick. It is beyond improbable, George.”

“I agree, but Sharpe has charge of the investigation, and on this point, he has the full backing of Dr. Hughes.”

She rose and went to the sideboard to fetch him a brandy and also thought to pour a sherry for herself. He accepted his glass with a smile and a kiss, and then they both settled back on the sofa.

“I devoutly hope we never see another murder in Highbury again,” she commented as she nestled under his embracing arm. “A proper investigation, and the application of any degree of common sense, seems beyond the capabilities of those charged with seeing justice is done.”

“Accept my sincere apologies for disappointing you,” her husband wryly replied.

“Don’t be silly. Of course I wasn’t referring to you.”

“I’m teasing, my darling. But it may be that Sharpe’s original conclusion was the correct one.”

“That Mrs. Elton was killed by a random thief?” She wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps, but there are so many unanswered questions, such as the state of Mrs. Elton’s finances.”

“Those unanswered issues may simply be coincidental.”

Painful experience had taught Emma to distrust the appearance of coincidence. For instance, she’d once thought it entirely coincidental that Frank Churchill had spent so much time with Jane Fairfax and the Bates ladies last year.

“While I hate to admit that Constable Sharpe could be right,” she said, “I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it. Mr. Elton is extremely closemouthed when it comes either to his finances—”

George suddenly shifted to frown down at her. “When were you discussing Mr. Elton’s finances with him?”

She mentally winced at her slip. “It came up entirely by chance. Mr. Elton stopped by Hartfield a few days ago, hoping to make a social call. As you can imagine, Father was quite upset and asked me to make it clear to Mr. Elton that his presence was not welcome.”

“But I thought you’d already explained that to him?”

“I did, but Mr. Elton was very persistent. I was forced to explain again that it would be best if he refrained from calling at Hartfield for the present.”

“So you went to the vicarage instead of sending a note?”

“I knew he would be distressed, so I thought it best to deliver the message in person.”

“And during this visit the state of his finances just happened, quite by chance, to come up,” he responded in a sardonic tone.

“Well . . .”

“Emma . . .”

She sighed and put down her glass. “I did pose a few questions—very discreetly—but he was markedly disinclined to discuss anything to do with his finances.”

He snorted. “One can hardly imagine why.”

“Really, dearest, it’s not as if you aren’t digging into the man’s finances. I simply tried to take a more direct route.”

“Obviously, with little success.”

“Yes, although he did mention one thing I thought rather odd.”

“Just one thing?”

“There’s no need to tease, George. You’ve made your point.”

He finally cracked a smile. “All right, what did he say that struck you as odd?”

“He said that when it came to financial matters, he relied entirely on Mr. Suckling for guidance. That statement, however, runs counter to what I heard during the funeral reception.” She twirled a hand. “You remember, when they were fighting over money. At the time, Mr. Elton seemed to be blaming Mr. Suckling for mishandling some aspect of Mrs. Elton’s finances. So, why would he subsequently tell me that he relied so heavily on his brother-in-law?”

George frowned at his now-empty glass. “I have no answer to that. But I’m not surprised by Elton’s reluctance to discuss money matters with you. Most men of my acquaintance are quite private in that regard.”

“Unlike Mrs. Elton, who was quite forthcoming in letting everyone know how much money she had.”

“Or did not have.”

“Or did not have,” she admitted. “Has John discovered anything about their financial situation—or Mr. Suckling’s, for that matter?”

“He has not, although he wrote to say that he will continue to investigate. I think we must be prepared, however, to accept that there is little fruit to be harvested from this line of inquiry. It could very well be that Mrs. Elton was murdered by a thief, now long gone.”

All her instincts rebelled against such a simple explanation. “If only I could get into Mr. Elton’s study again, I feel certain I would find something.”

George put down his glass with a decided clink. “You are to attempt no such thing, my dear. And, for once, I need you to listen to me.”

Emma adopted what she hoped was a suitably wounded expression. “I always listen to you, George.”

“But this time I need you to actually do what I am asking of you. In fact, I think it best if you no longer call at the vicarage by yourself.”

She was slightly startled by his serious tone. “Why ever not?”

“It’s not appropriate.”

Emma stared at him, perplexed. “But that makes no sense. I’m a married woman, and he is our vicar. George, if I didn’t know better, I would think you were jealous of Mr. Elton. Which is—”

“Ridiculous,” he replied. “My dear, I am not jealous, but have you forgotten that Elton was once your suitor? The current circumstances have generated a great deal of gossip in Highbury, some of it centered around you.”

“It’s hardly my fault that I discovered the body. As to the other issue, no one knew Mr. Elton was courting me. I didn’t know Mr. Elton was courting me.”

“Some did. John, for one.”

“John is hardly about to exchange lurid tales with anyone in Highbury.”

“Regardless, I think it best if you place a bit of distance between yourself and Elton. I fear he leans on you too much for support—and that will generate gossip.”

“If people are going to gossip about anyone, it’s Mr. Elton and Harriet. He seems to be quite taken with her, and she with him. Given their previous history, I find it entirely bizarre.”

“I imagine it would be even more bizarre for Robert Martin,” he replied. “I would therefore advise that Harriet distance herself from Elton, too.”

“I have already made that suggestion.”

“Sound advice, my dear. Please apply it to yourself, as well.”

Emma thought about it for a few moments and then shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. I truly feel for the poor man, but he certainly made a nuisance of himself over Miss Bates and Dick Curtis.”

“Precisely. By the way, I spoke to Elton today.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You did? And did he say anything about me that gave you this present cause for concern?”

“He did not, but I did ask him why he excluded Dick Curtis from the parish poor roll.”

“Goodness, that must have been awkward.”

“Thankfully, Elton acknowledged his error in keeping him off the roll in the first place. He takes full responsibility for subsequent events, and he told me that he has already written to Curtis to express his sincere regrets.”

“One would hope he would make his apologies in person,” she replied, feeling rather severe. “Given that his actions resulted in the poor fellow getting carted off to prison.”

“I suspect our vicar is a trifle leery of meeting with Curtis in person,” George dryly replied.

She had to agree, since Mr. Elton had never struck her as a man with a great deal of physical courage.

“Did he give a reason for keeping Dick off the roll in the first place?” she asked.

“Only that he objected to Dick’s rough manners and rudeness.”

That was certainly the old Mr. Elton, and not the new. “It hardly seems fair to expect a farm laborer to have the manners of a gentleman.”

“Elton seemed sincerely apologetic and readily agreed to put Curtis on the roll.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Now, I’d best check on Father and see that all is well.”

As she started to rise, her husband wrapped his hand around her wrist and pulled her gently back down.

“I saw Mr. Suckling today, as well,” he said.

She raised an enquiring brow. “So, he’s back in Highbury. I take it that Mrs. Suckling did not accompany him?”

“No.”

“I wonder why he returned. Oh! Perhaps he came back to help Mr. Elton with some financial matters.”

If so, that might give her an opportunity to—

“I doubt it,” her husband replied in a dampening tone.

“What he did request, and quite vociferously, was an update on the investigation. He and his wife are impatient to see progress.”

Emma sighed, disappointed. “I suppose I cannot blame him, although I’m not sure why he couldn’t write to Mr. Elton for details.”

“He wished to speak to Constable Sharpe in person. And to me,” he added with a long-suffering look.

“I take it that he was not best pleased with your report.”

“With Constable Sharpe’s report, more to the point. He found the notion of the poultry thief as killer to be entirely risible.”

“While Mr. Suckling is a very unpleasant man, he is certainly not stupid. I hope he didn’t blame you for this silly state of affairs.”

“He certainly did. In fact, I got quite the lecture on the incompetence of country magistrates.”

Emma bristled on her husband’s behalf. “I hope you put him in his place.”

“I doubt he would have cared. Elton did try to manage him, but Suckling would have none of it.”

She rested a hand against his cheek. “My poor George, what a day you’ve had.”

When he took her hand and kissed her palm, the tender caress evoked a delightful sensation. “True, but dinner was excellent, and I have an evening alone with my enchanting wife.”

“Then your enchanting wife will check on her father and return to you forthwith. She also promises to cease talking about murders and investigations, at least for the rest of the evening.”

“Then I shall look forward to your return with great anticipation.”

She rose and was halfway across the drawing room when the door flew open and Simon rushed in.

“Goodness,” she exclaimed, stumbling to a halt. “What’s the matter, Simon?”

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Knightley, but it’s your father,” the footman blurted out.

Emma’s heart skipped a beat. “What’s wrong?”

“Mr. Woodhouse fell out of bed, and I can’t wake him up.”

Emma quietly closed her father’s bedroom door before turning to see George coming up the stairs.

“Perry is gone, I take it,” he said as he joined her. “Can I assume all is well?”

“Yes, thank goodness,” she replied.

She handed an empty breakfast tray to Simon, who’d kept watch by the door all night with steadfast loyalty, ready to assist at a moment’s notice.

“Thank you, Simon,” she said to their senior footman. “That will be all for now, but have someone bring up a fresh pot of tea in an hour.”

“I’ll bring it myself, Mrs. Knightley.”

Emma wagged a finger at him. “You kept watch all night, and now you should retire for some rest. Thomas or one of the kitchen staff can bring the tray up.”

“Don’t you be worrying about me, Mrs. Knightley,” the young man stoutly replied. “I’ll be fine.”

Once Simon had retreated downstairs, George gently stroked Emma’s hair. “He obviously takes after the mistress of the house. Did you get any sleep, my darling?”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “More than I expected, although I cannot say that a leather club chair is particularly conducive to a comfortable rest.”

George grimaced. “I would have sat with him, you know. There was no need to wear yourself out like this.”

She patted his arm. “I’m just a bit creaky, which is nothing a hot bath cannot fix. Besides, I wished to be there in case Father woke up and was confused.”

“Did he wake up during the night?”

“No,” she ruefully replied. “As Mr. Perry predicted, he had a sound sleep.”

Very sound, due to a quantity of laudanum large enough that Mr. Perry had initially feared it would send her father’s heart into a fatal spasm. Fortunately, she and the apothecary had finally managed to rouse Father from his stupor. A purgative had been administered, and nature had then taken its course. A few hours later Mr. Perry had pronounced him out of danger, and he had subsequently passed a peaceful night in a deep but natural sleep.

Emma would never forget those terrifying moments when she and George had rushed upstairs to find the old darling unconscious, his breathing labored. A footman had run to summon Mr. Perry, who’d arrived with remarkable speed and swiftly diagnosed the condition, concluding that Father had ingested a fairly substantial dose of laudanum.

How he’d managed to do so, however, was a question yet to be answered.

“How is Henry, now that he is awake?” George asked.

“Much better. In fact, he managed to eat both a coddled egg and a bowl of gruel. I was quite surprised.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’m sorry I missed Perry, but I knew he would not leave your father if he had any lingering concerns.”

She smiled. “Not surprising, since Father is his best patient.”

While most of her father’s complaints amounted to nothing more than minor ailments, last night’s incident had been anything but minor. Mr. Perry had not departed Hartfield until the longcase clock in the hall struck two and his patient was clearly out of danger. He’d then returned before breakfast and stayed until satisfied that Emma’s father was well on the mend.

“I think Henry gave even Perry a scare last night,” George commented. “I’ve never seen him so concerned for your father’s health.”

She had to stifle a yawn. “Thankfully, he believes Father will not suffer any lasting effects.”

George studied her with concern. “Emma, you must be exhausted. Why don’t you lie down for a rest? I will sit with Henry.”

“Thank you, dearest—perhaps I will later. First, I want to hear what you discovered.”

He hesitated for a moment. “I think we must talk to your father, and hope that he will be able to shed more light on the situation.”

She sighed. “So the servants have no idea how it could have happened?”

While Emma had spent the morning with her father, George had investigated the unnerving incident. There were a number of medicinal tinctures and concoctions in the house, most of which were in the stillroom and carefully supervised by Serle. It was possible, although hard to imagine, that someone might have inadvertently mixed up one medicinal with another. But her imagination could not supply the means by which the laudanum had then found its way into her father’s wineglass.

“Unfortunately, no,” George replied. “Serle was beside herself at the notion that anything coming from the kitchen or stillroom might have poisoned your father.”

Poisoned.

The word hit like a hammer blow to the chest.

“ Poisoned is a very strong word, George.”

“It is accurate nonetheless.” He put out a quick hand to stem her protest. “Although I believe it was entirely accidental.”

Emma struggled with a brief surge of panic. “If Mr. Perry hadn’t acted so quickly—”

“Thankfully, he did.”

“Did you check the decanter in the drawing room?”

Emma had poured her father’s ratafia from that decanter last night, but it was hard to believe that could be the source of the contamination.

“Unfortunately, because it was near empty, Thomas removed it last night and brought it to the kitchen to be washed and refilled.”

“And neither he nor the scullery maid noticed anything amiss with the decanter?”

“They did not. Serle also checked the bottle of laudanum in the stillroom, and it seemed untouched from the last time it was used.”

Emma nodded. “That makes sense. Father only occasionally takes the drops when his nervous stomach plagues him, but he’s been ever so much better in that regard. I don’t think he’s had even one drop for the past few months.”

George looked thoughtful. “Serle said that, as well. But your father has been very anxious about this murder business. Is it possible he put the drops in his glass last night and miscalculated the dose?”

“He does keep a small bottle of laudanum in his room, so it’s possible. But it’s normally Serle who adds the drops in his tea, which she sweetens with honey.”

Since the drops themselves tasted bitter, they required a sweetener or other flavorings to make them palatable.

“Then the most reasonable explanation,” George responded, “is that your father must have self-administered the drops last night and miscalculated. It seems all but impossible that one of the household staff could be responsible, even inadvertently.”

She held up her hands. “Well, none of the servants have ever wanted to murder Father before, even when he was at his most fretful. So I doubt they would begin now.”

When her husband’s eyebrows all but shot up to his hairline, Emma winced. Clearly, Mr. Elton wasn’t the only person whose mind had become unhinged by this summer’s unfortunate events.

“How dreadfully inappropriate of me,” she said. “My apologies, dearest. You may blame my ridiculous comments on lack of sleep.”

He stooped and pressed a kiss to her lips. “There is nothing to forgive, my love. And one might also note that your observation is not entirely without merit.”

She swatted his arm. “You’re almost as bad as I am. What is the world coming to when Mr. Knightley loses all sense of propriety, just like his wife?”

“Marriage was bound to have some effect on my character.”

“Not for the better, apparently,” she wryly replied. “But I suppose we’d best go in and speak with Father.”

“Is he well enough to discuss the situation?”

“I left him reading in his chair, and he seemed quite content. I do hate the idea of upsetting him, though. He’ll be mortified if he did this to himself.”

George held out his hand. “I know, but it must be done so the same mistake cannot happen again.”

She briefly squeezed his fingers, drawing comfort from the warmth and strength of his grip, and then opened the door.

“You have a visitor, Father,” she announced in a bright tone as they entered the room.

Her father, seated by the fireplace in his dressing gown and cozily wrapped in a cashmere shawl, looked up from his book with a gentle smile.

“Ah, George. I was hoping you would come to see me. I must apologize for putting everyone to such trouble. My poor Emma spent the entire night by my bedside.” He reached for her hand. “I only hope she does not fall ill from holding such a strenuous vigil.”

She stooped to press a quick kiss to his forehead. “You’re not to worry about me, dearest. I’m perfectly fine.”

“I insist that you rest this afternoon, my dear. George, tell Emma that she must rest.”

“Not to worry, sir. I will see that she does so.”

“Father, do you feel well enough to talk about what happened last night?”

He sighed. “George, will you please fetch Emma a chair and put it next to mine, right by the fire? I do not wish her to catch a chill.”

Emma would have preferred to open a window, since the handsome room was quite warm enough, even without a fire.

As befitting the private domain of Hartfield’s master, the bedroom was the largest in the house. After Isabella married John and moved to London, Emma had undertaken a flurry of renovations, including papering her father’s bedroom and installing a new carpet and draperies in lovely shades of cream, gold, and cerulean blue. Ever resistant to change, Father had naturally objected. But no major refurbishing had been undertaken since the death of her mother, and Emma had found her father’s room to be a trifle gloomy. Now, though, it was a cheerful, comfortable retreat, calculated to lift his sometimes depressed spirits.

Still, as she got a good look at the curtains in the bright morning light, she thought the gold fabric was looking a little faded. Perhaps it was time—

“My dear?” George said in a quizzical tone as he set a padded rosewood chair next to her father. “Would you like to sit?”

“Forgive me, George. I was woolgathering.”

Her father sighed again. “About me, I suppose. What a trial I am to you both.”

She winced, embarrassed that she’d started to mentally redecorate the room instead of attending to her father. But one couldn’t spend all one’s time fretting about one crisis or another. Doing so would be a very tiresome way to conduct one’s life.

“You are never a trial,” she said as she took her seat. “And we’re very relieved that you’re ever so much better this morning.”

“Perry counseled that I am not to leave my room until after luncheon, and to avoid any strenuous activity for the rest of the day. So, I’m afraid we will have to forgo our walk around the garden, my dear.”

Emma bit back a smile, because only he would regard their leisurely strolls around the rosebushes as strenuous activity.

“Never mind. You can always spend the rest of the day up here, where you won’t be disturbed.”

“I will certainly come down after luncheon,” he replied, “since Miss Bates will be calling this afternoon.”

Of course Miss Bates was coming. Emma could hardly remember the last time a day had passed when the spinster had not called at Hartfield.

“I’m sure Miss Bates would understand if you wished to stay up here and rest, Father.”

He shook his head. “She will fret if she hears I’ve been ill. I do not wish to worry her.”

In days past, it never would have occurred to him that his various ailments were a cause for concern for anyone beyond his immediate household.

“Only if you feel up to it,” she dubiously replied.

He graced her with a beatific smile. “I will be perfectly fine, my dear.”

She and George exchanged an incredulous glance. Normally, an episode of this magnitude would have prompted her father to take to his bed for a few days, at least. She hardly knew what to make of him anymore.

“Then since you are feeling better, sir,” said George, moving to the side of the fireplace, “I hope you won’t mind discussing what happened last night.”

“Indeed, no,” he replied. “Unfortunately, I can hardly remember a thing.”

Mr. Perry had warned Emma that such might be the case. Under the circumstances, that was most unfortunate.

“Father, how did you feel when I escorted you upstairs?” she asked. “You seemed fine when Simon came in to help you prepare for bed.”

He nodded. “I was a trifle fatigued, I will admit. All this murder business and that dreadful poultry thief cannot help but weigh on one’s mind.”

“Perfectly understandable,” George said. “In fact, one might even expect one’s sleep to be disrupted.”

“Dear me, yes. How can one properly sleep knowing that such a desperate villain is at large?”

“Which is why I suggested you have a glass of ratafia,” Emma said. “I thought it might help you relax.”

“It seemed a sensible suggestion, my dear. But I did feel quite woolly-headed after I drank it.” He grimaced an apology. “After that, I seemed to have dozed off in my chair. Simon helped me to bed, but I have only the vaguest recollection of him doing so.”

Emma put up a finger. “You didn’t finish your glass. Do you remember that?”

He’d left the wineglass, almost half-full, on the round table beside his reading chair. That was how Dr. Perry had been able to ascertain that the ratafia had contained a fairly large dose of laudanum, one that—given her father’s age—could have caused a fatal heart spasm if he’d imbibed the entire thing. That horrible image made her blood turn icy, and for once, she was grateful for the warmth of the fire in the grate.

Her father frowned, as if struggling with the question. Then his brow suddenly cleared.

“I remember now. I didn’t finish the drink, because it tasted rather odd. I thought perhaps that our wine supplier had sold us an inferior bottle.” He shook his head. “You must speak to him, Emma. We cannot be serving inferior wine to our guests.”

“It was the laudanum that altered the taste,” she patiently replied. “Remember?”

“Oh, that’s right. My memory is so frightfully bad. I don’t know how you manage to put up with me.”

She patted his hand. “We do so very well, I assure you. Now, this is important, Father. Do you think it’s possible that you might have put the laudanum drops in the ratafia yourself and perhaps miscalculated the dose? You’ve given yourself laudanum in the past, usually just a few drops, when you had trouble sleeping. Perhaps you were afraid that you would lie awake and worry?”

He frowned again. “I must have, even though I have no recollection doing so. How else would the drops have gotten in my drink?”

George crossed to her father’s dressing table. It held a large silver tray containing several small bottles of various tinctures, as well as packets of headache powders, provided by Mr. Perry.

After selecting a small dark brown bottle, he returned to them. “Is this it?”

Emma nodded. “Yes.”

“Do you recollect how full it was before last night?”

She took the bottle and studied it, willing her brain to dredge up the memory. Alas, her brain was refusing to cooperate. “No, unfortunately. How frustrating.”

“Please do not fret yourself, Emma,” her father said. “Since neither you nor Serle nor Simon administered the drops, the only explanation is that I did so myself. I shouldn’t be surprised at all, since one cannot possibly think clearly with dangerous villains running about Highbury. I’m sure I was distracted and simply failed to properly count the drops.”

George nodded. “That is the most reasonable explanation. In the future, however, it might be best to have only Emma or Simon administer your drops from this bottle. Then you may be sure the dosage will be correct.”

Her father looked rueful. “How very foolish of me. I shouldn’t be surprised if you’re both very angry with me for causing such a commotion.”

Emma leaned forward and pressed his arm. “Dearest, of course we’re not angry! We simply wish to make sure that nothing like this ever happens again.”

He pressed her hand with his own. “With you and Simon taking care of me, not to mention George and Serle, I’m sure it will not. You always do everything so perfectly, my dear.”

She mustered a smile, even though she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had somehow failed him—and failed to get to the heart of yet another mystery. Even within the domestic sanctuary of Hartfield, the truth was proving elusive.