Murder in Highbury (Emma Knightley Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 23

C HAPTER 23

E mma stifled a yawn. Although she’d wished for nothing more than a quiet afternoon and no visitors, her father had felt otherwise. After a modest lunch, he’d insisted on coming downstairs to await the arrival of Miss Bates. Resigned, she’d thought it best to join them to keep a weather eye. She was determined Father not wear himself out.

Thankfully, she’d not been expected to join the conversation. After serving the pair tea, she’d retreated to a corner with her needlework to watch discreetly. Father seemed fine, listening attentively to Miss Bates’s musings and observations while adding his commiserations and consolations, as required.

And there were many observations and many commiserations. Emma was ready to stuff cotton batting into her ears to avoid hearing yet another discussion of the combined perfidies of Constable Sharpe and Mr. Elton.

Although to be fair, Miss Bates displayed a truly Christian charity toward Mr. Elton by explaining away his actions as the confusion and distress of grief. Father, however, was not so ready to forgive. Despite Emma’s best efforts to justify Mr. Elton’s behavior to her parent, she suspected it would still be some time before the vicar was again welcome at Hartfield.

In the occasional idle moment, like now, she tried to imagine how she would respond if George were murdered. She doubted she would adopt Mr. Elton’s model of patient suffering. In fact, Emma thought it highly likely that she would transform into an avenging harpy, albeit one in widow’s weeds and armed with only a sharp-ended parasol. Since she looked dreadful in black and would probably grow queasy when stabbing villains with her pointy parasol, she could only be thankful that the odds of George getting murdered were extremely slim. After all, everyone loved him—unlike the poor departed Mrs. Elton.

“Emma,” her father said, breaking into her silly imaginings, “you have let your tea grow cold. You must have a fresh cup and something to eat.”

Miss Bates clasped her hands together in an earnest manner. “Indeed, Mrs. Knightley. Your father has been telling me how you never left his bedside last night. Such devotion is beyond anything, I vow. I will be sure to tell Mother all about it. She will be amazed, as will Jane. But you have always been the most devoted of daughters.” She smiled at Father. “You have been so fortunate in your daughters, sir, as I have been so fortunate in Jane. She is like a daughter to me, you know, and none could be more devoted than she—except Mrs. Knightley, of course. No one can compare to Mrs. Knightley. But how terrified you must all have been! I should have been in a dreadful fright to see you brought so low, Mr. Woodhouse.”

“I can hardly fathom how it could have happened but for my own foolishness,” he replied. “Thank goodness for Mr. Perry and my dear Emma. She is patience itself, Miss Bates, even though I must greatly try her at times.”

“Father, that is entirely silly,” said Emma when she was finally able to put in a word. “No one could have a better parent. And I know that Jane feels just the same about you, Miss Bates. We are both of us fortunate in our families.”

The spinster gave her a sweet smile. “Dear Mrs. Knightley. Indeed, Jane is the kindest girl one could ever hope to meet. Why, I remember one time—”

“And how is Jane?” Emma interrupted, hoping to forestall another anecdote detailing Jane’s many virtues. “I’ve not seen her in two days. I hope she is feeling well, and I trust that Frank is taking good care of her.”

“Indeed,” Miss Bates replied, properly diverted. “Randalls is the perfect place for a good rest, you know. Such a healthful environment—quite the best one could imagine. Except for Hartfield, of course. No house could be more conducive to one’s health than Hartfield.”

Emma’s father looked much struck. “Very true. Randalls is well enough, and dear Miss Taylor—”

“Dear Mrs. Weston,” Emma automatically corrected.

“Keeps a fine house,” her father serenely continued. “But Hartfield has Serle, and that makes all the difference.”

The two friends then embarked on a lengthy discussion about Jane’s health, the merits of Hartfield’s cook versus Randalls’s cook, and the sorts of food most appropriate for a woman in the family way. Emma was once more able to let her mind wander as she pretended to do her needlework.

She’d almost fallen into a doze when the door opened and George entered the drawing room. Quickly rousing herself, she rose to her feet.

“Good afternoon, dearest,” she said. “Are you joining us for tea, or must you be off to Donwell?”

“Neither. Constable Sharpe has come to call, and I’d like you to join us in my study.”

She sighed. As if this day hadn’t been trying enough.

Miss Bates, who’d also stood when George appeared, sank back onto the settee, pressing a trembling hand to her throat.

“H-how distressing,” she stuttered. “Constable Sharpe. Dear me, whatever can he want? I hope I don’t have to speak to him, Mr. Knightley. Perhaps I should go. If only I can do so without seeing him. It is foolish of me to be so nervous, but I cannot seem to help it.”

Emma’s father now came to his feet, the picture of genteel offense. “George, I will not allow that man to continue to persecute Miss Bates. He believes he can come into my home at any time and attempt to frighten us. It must stop, or I will be having words with him.”

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” Emma hastened to reassure. “No doubt he’s simply stopping by to discuss some small detail of the investigation.”

At least she hoped so. If he tried to arrest Miss Bates again, she would be tempted to stab the dratted man with a very pointy parasol, even though he was a constable.

George held up a calming hand. “You need have no fears, Miss Bates. In fact, Constable Sharpe has arrested Mrs. Elton’s murderer, or so he believes.”

His announcement produced a stunned silence.

“Never say it’s the poultry thief,” Emma finally exclaimed.

Her husband cast her a sardonic glance. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but no.”

Father looked affronted. “You mean that villain is still at large? I must speak to the constable, George. This state of affairs is deplorable.”

Emma had to press a finger to her lips to hold back a laugh. Only her father could so dramatically miss the forest for the trees.

“Perhaps it might be best if we defer that discussion for now,” she said. “George will be sure to raise it at the appropriate time.”

“The poultry thief is, of course, very frightening,” Miss Bates ventured in a tentative voice. “But can it truly be that Mrs. Elton’s murderer has finally been caught?”

George nodded. “So it would seem.”

The spinster clasped her hands in a prayerful attitude, her cheeks flushing a bright pink. “Heavens, what a blessing! I do not mean to complain, Mr. Knightley, but I have been in such a terrible flutter, no matter how hard I try to be brave. And poor Mother and Jane! It has been such an ordeal for them both. If not for the support of all my dear friends, especially Mr. Woodhouse—” She broke off, overcome with emotion.

Emma’s father sat and took her hand. “You have undergone a great trial, Miss Bates. Who could blame you for possessing such feelings?”

“Your trials are now over, ma’am,” George said. “There is no further cause for alarm.”

The spinster drew in a shuddering breath. “I hardly know what to think. Dear me, should I thank Constable Sharpe? It is such a relief, you know. He has been so very annoyed with me.”

“I hardly think that’s necessary,” Emma said. “He was wrong to suspect you in the first place.”

Besides, if Miss Bates were to engage in one of her lengthy apologies, Constable Sharpe might never get around to telling them who the murderer was.

“You will certainly not apologize,” said Emma’s father. “Mr. Sharpe acted in a very low manner and treated you most improperly.”

“But if he caught the killer, should we not thank him?” she asked. “It seems the Christian thing to do.”

“If you wish to thank anyone, thank Mr. Elton,” said George. “He’s the one who identified the killer and saw to his arrest.”

That led to another stunned silence. Emma practically had to push up her sagging jaw with her thumb. “What? How?”

“Mr. Elton!” cried Miss Bates. “How very courageous of him to capture his wife’s killer. I can hardly bear to think of the perils he must have faced in doing so. He has always been such a kind and mild person, but to hear that he faced down a ruthless killer . . . one hardly knows what to think.”

“Most irregular,” huffed Father. “I’m not sure I approve of such doings.”

God, give me strength.

“George,” Emma said from between gritted teeth. “Who is this blasted killer?”

Her father regarded her with dismay. “My dear, such language.”

Emma ignored him to scowl at her husband. She had the clear sense that he found this absurd conversation amusing.

“George,” she said in a warning tone.

He gave her a slight smile. “The constable has arrested Mr. Suckling. Apparently, he has been found in possession of Mrs. Elton’s necklace.”

As Miss Bates let out a squeak, Emma found herself once more gaping at her husband. It took a moment to gather her startled wits.

“How did this revelation come to light?” she asked.

“Apparently, one of Mr. Elton’s servants found the necklace in Suckling’s luggage.”

Emma plopped down in her chair, turning that bit of news over in her head. “But if he killed Mrs. Elton and took her necklace, why would he leave it where someone could find it?”

Much less cart it about with him, waiting for it to be discovered. It seemed entirely deranged. Then again, most killers probably were deranged.

Miss Bates flapped her hands like an agitated goose. “Mr. Knightley, how can this be? The Eltons and the Sucklings were so very close. Mrs. Elton was forever speaking of their intimate relationship and of the beauties of Maple Grove. Why, it was a second home to her. And Mr. Suckling is such a genteel man and so very distinguished.”

Father harrumphed. “I never liked the man. He was quite rough in speaking to Mrs. Goddard at the inquest, and he insisted the windows be kept wide open. So reckless a man could be guilty of anything.”

Emma had now overcome her shock and rose from her chair. “We’d best go speak to Constable Sharpe. I hope he will be able to shed some light on the matter.”

“That is my hope, as well,” George dryly replied.

“Miss Bates and I will wait for you, Emma,” her father said. “I will wish to hear everything. And please ensure that the constable leaves as soon as you are finished speaking with him. Miss Bates should not have to see him.”

The spinster gave him a misty smile. “Dear, dear Mr. Woodhouse, always so concerned for my welfare.”

“It is my pleasure, dear lady,” said Father, taking her hand again.

A rather alarming thought popped into Emma’s brain, but she batted it away. It was a silly notion. Besides, there were much more important matters to attend to.

After promising to return as soon as possible, she and George left the room.

“It would seem you were correct in your assessment of Suckling’s character,” her husband said as they headed toward his study.

“I believe we shared that assessment, but I never thought him a murderer.”

“Apparently, he is.”

She waggled a hand. “I neither like nor trust the man, but that doesn’t mean he’s a killer.”

“Hopefully, Constable Sharpe can provide more detail.”

When they entered the study, Sharpe rose from his seat in front of George’s desk. His attitude was somber, and he even forgot himself enough to give Emma a respectful bow. He remained standing while George moved behind his desk and Emma took one of the chairs in front of it.

“Constable, where is Mr. Suckling now?” George asked as he settled into his chair.

“On his way to Guildford, sir. Dr. Hughes is taking him to be placed in the gaol. The doctor took his own carriage, along with Mr. Elton’s footmen to keep the prisoner under control.”

George’s eyebrows snapped together in an intimidating frown. “He is already being transferred to prison? When was he arrested?”

“First thing this morning, Mr. Knightley. The incident occurred right after breakfast—”

“By the incident , you mean the discovery of the missing necklace?” Emma interrupted.

“Aye, Mrs. Knightley. That and the fight between Mr. Suckling and Mr. Elton. That’s when the vicar’s footman came running to fetch me.”

“Why was I not told of this?” George sternly asked.

The constable grimaced an apology. “Begging your pardon, sir, but we knew Mr. Woodhouse was feeling poorly, so I thought it best to send for Dr. Hughes first. And then he said we shouldn’t be bothering you.” He twirled a hand. “On account of Mr. Woodhouse being taken so ill.”

“It is not the coroner’s job to arrest suspects,” George replied, clearly annoyed by the abrogation of his authority.

The constable shook his head. “No, sir, but it is my job, and I would have done it without any say-so from Dr. Hughes.”

“They why is Dr. Hughes escorting the prisoner to the gaol, and not you?”

Sharpe’s thin features pulled downward into a sour expression. “I made that point myself, sir, but Dr. Hughes insisted he accompany the prisoner. He said he was best placed to take Suckling’s statement. That way, he would know it to be accurate for the indictment.”

“Coroners do not issue indictments, either,” George replied in a clipped tone.

“Don’t I know it,” muttered the constable.

George tapped his desktop. “I will want a full report in writing from both you and Dr. Hughes.”

Although loath to overstep her husband’s authority, Emma couldn’t wait a second longer. “And speaking of reports, what happened? Did Mr. Elton and Mr. Suckling actually get into a fight?” She twirled a finger. “As in fisticuffs?”

Her mind was still attempting to conjure up the image of their weedy vicar engaging in a physical contest.

“More like a beating, Mrs. Knightley,” the constable grimly replied. “Mr. Suckling tried to throttle poor Mr. Elton.”

Her mind was instantly catapulted back to the church and the bruises on Mrs. Elton’s throat. Emma felt her stomach revolt.

“Good heavens,” she managed.

George looked astonished but quickly recovered. “Constable, why don’t you start at the beginning? How did all this come about?”

“It was all a bit garbled, sir, with the vicar being so distraught. Mr. Suckling gave the poor fellow a right good crack to the jaw before he got his hands around his throat.” He shook his head. “Mr. Elton was a terrible sight, Mr. Knightley. That was another reason I sent for Dr. Hughes straight off. Mr. Elton was fair knocked about.”

Emma pressed a hand to her throat, which suddenly felt too tight. “How dreadful.”

George nodded. “Under the circumstances, it certainly made sense to send for Dr. Hughes. But let me try to understand. You said one of the servants found the missing necklace in Mr. Suckling’s luggage?”

“The housekeeper did. Mr. Suckling was to return to London first thing this morning, and Mrs. Wright was bringing some fresh laundry up to his room. That’s when she found the necklace.”

Emma frowned. “Just sitting in his luggage, waiting to be discovered? Why would he not hide it someplace safe instead of carrying it about with him?”

“Mr. Elton says Mr. Suckling probably thought it was safest close by or on himself. He said no one would think Mrs. Elton’s own brother-in-law would kill her.”

Emma shot a glance at George, whose skeptical expression probably mirrored her own.

“And what was Mr. Suckling’s response to the discovery of the necklace?” George asked.

“I told you, sir. He tried to throttle Mr. Elton.”

“But surely he didn’t immediately launch himself at Mr. Elton,” Emma impatiently said. “Did Mr. Suckling not have anything to say for himself first?”

“I was just getting to that, ma’am, if you’ll let me finish my report,” Sharpe replied in an aggrieved tone.

“It would certainly be helpful if you could relate the events in order,” she said. “You seem to be working back to front.”

Bristling, the constable opened his mouth as if to rebut her, but George swiftly intervened. “It would be useful to know what happened before the assault, Constable. I assume Mr. Suckling and Mr. Elton exchanged words.”

Sharpe threw Emma a disgruntled look before returning his attention to George.

“They did, sir. Mr. Suckling claimed he had no idea how the necklace got into his luggage, and told Mr. Elton he was a fool for thinking he had anything to do with Mrs. Elton’s murder. According to Mrs. Wright, things got right heated after that, and Mr. Suckling accused Mr. Elton of being a traitor.”

Emma raised her eyebrows at George. “A traitor? What could he possibly mean by that?”

The constable shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Mr. Elton—or Mr. Suckling.”

“I intend to,” George replied. “What happened next?”

“Mr. Elton accused Mr. Suckling of killing his wife. That’s when Mr. Suckling attacked him. By the time the footmen got into the room, he had the vicar down on the floor with his hands around his throat. Took two of them to pull the villain off poor Mr. Elton.”

Emma could barely fathom what she was hearing. She’d certainly not found Mr. Suckling a trustworthy or likable person, but to learn that he was capable of such violence was appalling. Even so, it simply made no sense. What motive could he have for murdering his sister-in-law?

“Did Mr. Elton have any explanation for why Mr. Suckling would murder his own wife’s sister?” she asked.

“The oldest in the world, ma’am,” the constable replied. “Money.”

She frowned. “Did it have something to do with Mrs. Elton’s money troubles? We know that she was experiencing a degree of agitation in that regard, but surely that is hardly a rational motive for her murder.”

“Murder is never rational, Mrs. Knightley,” Sharpe pedantically replied. “It’s the foulest of deeds and springs from a disordered mind.”

Mr. Suckling hardly struck her as someone with a disordered mind, despite this morning’s violent episode. “I’m sure that is often the case. But if the motive is strong enough, it might be considered an entirely rational act—at least from the killer’s point of view.”

“When it comes to murder, I believe I have a greater knowledge of the criminal mind than you, Mrs. Knightley,” Sharpe huffily replied.

Emma graced him with her sweetest smile—so sweet it made her teeth tingle. “Mr. Sharpe, with this one exception, no one has been murdered in Highbury in our lifetimes, much less during your term as constable.”

He drew his lanky frame to its full, offended height. “I’ll have you know, ma’am, that I have studied the subject at great length, and—”

George rapped his knuckles on his desktop. “May I suggest we refrain from embarking on theoretical discussions of the criminal mind and stick to the matter at hand?”

Emma wrinkled her nose at her husband in silent apology.

“Just as you say, sir,” the constable stiffly replied.

George nodded. “Then please continue. You stated that money was the motive for Mrs. Elton’s murder. In what way, exactly?”

“Mr. Elton believes that Mr. Suckling was in the River Tick and—”

“What does that mean?” Emma interrupted.

“It means he was in debt,” George explained.

“Really? What an odd expression.”

“As I was saying,” Sharpe said in a long-suffering tone, “Mr. Elton is now convinced that Mr. Suckling has substantial money troubles and is trying to hide them. He believes that Mrs. Elton had discovered what was going on, and was going to tell her sister and then expose Mr. Suckling’s chicanery to the world.”

Emma all but goggled at him. “That makes no sense. While I can understand Mrs. Elton wishing to inform her sister—assuming Mrs. Suckling wasn’t already aware—publicly exposing Mr. Suckling would ruin not only his reputation and standing but his wife’s, as well. That is hardly an act of sisterly charity.”

If her own brother-in-law were to find himself in the River Tick, Emma would move heaven and earth to protect Isabella and the children. Mrs. Elton had her faults, but surely she would protect her sister, with whom she had—by all appearances—a close relationship.

“What proof did Mr. Elton provide that would bear his theory out?” George asked.

Mr. Sharpe held up a finger. “The vicar discovered some letters between Mr. Suckling and Mrs. Elton—very suspicious letters.”

They both waited for Sharpe to elucidate at greater length. The constable, however, simply regarded them with a triumphantly smug expression.

“And what did these letters say?” George finally asked.

“I wouldn’t know, exactly,” Sharpe admitted. “Dr. Hughes took them with him.”

Emma’s patience fully deserted her. “George, this is utterly ridiculous. Dr. Hughes has absconded with all the evidence, leaving us with nothing but vague theories and accusations.”

Her husband looked as irritated as she felt. “It’s certainly an irregular way to conduct an investigation.”

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Knightley,” the constable said, “but it’s not my fault if Dr. Hughes took the evidence with him, and poor Mr. Elton was in no shape to give a clear account of events. I’m not best pleased about the state of things, neither.”

Emma felt a twinge of sympathy for Sharpe. Clearly, he was no happier with Dr. Hughes than they were.

“How very annoying of him to run off with both the evidence and the suspect,” she said. “I cannot think what got into him.”

“I can,” George sardonically replied.

Enlightenment dawned on Emma. “Ah, I suppose he wishes to take the credit for solving the murder. I must say that’s not very charitable of him.”

Sharpe again fell to muttering under his breath, clearly aggrieved with his crime-fighting colleague.

“Constable, do you have anything else to add?” George asked.

“No, sir. I’ve told you all I know. For more, you’ll have to wait until Dr. Hughes returns this evening.”

Emma thought for a moment. “We could call on Mr. Elton now.”

The constable looked startled. “He’s a right mess, Mrs. Knightley. Took quite a beating, he did.”

“Then all the more reason to visit,” she briskly replied as she rose to her feet. “The poor man will need our support after suffering such a harrowing experience. George, I’ll just nip down to the kitchen and ask Serle to put together a basket of nourishing foodstuffs. And I have a very effective tincture for pain and bruising, so I’ll fetch that, too.”

Her husband stood. “My dear, I’m sure Mrs. Wright has everything she needs to—”

“Nonsense. One cannot depend entirely on servants in cases such as this. Mr. Elton needs his friends right now. He needs us.”

Emma truly believed that. She also believed they wouldn’t get any straight answers about Mr. Suckling until they heard it directly from Mr. Elton himself.

She began to mentally tick off a list of necessary supplies. “George, perhaps you can pop in and explain things to Father while I gather up what I need. I’ll meet you in the entrance hall in a half hour.”

He eyed her with a skeptical expression and then simply shrugged his acquiescence. Emma graced him with an approving smile as she hurried from the room.