Murder in Highbury (Emma Knightley Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 27

C HAPTER 27

B y the time Emma reached Donwell, she was dust covered and breathless. She’d all but raced past Randalls, where, for a fleeting moment, she’d considered stopping to enlist Frank’s support. But a disconcerting instinct had told her that she couldn’t afford the time, so anxiety had driven her on, like the gusting winds that foretold the approach of a storm.

She paused for a few moments, bracing her hands on her knees as she sought to catch her breath. It wouldn’t do to rush into her husband’s study like a madwoman. She probably looked like one, though, so she took a moment to smooth her hair and shake the dust from her skirts.

As usual on a summer’s day such as this, Donwell’s oaken front doors stood open to let in the fresh air. She hurried through the great hall to the corridor that led to the east wing. Unless he was out in the orchards with William Larkins, George was most likely down there in his study, working on the abbey’s accounts.

Thankfully, all seemed quiet. There were very few servants at Donwell these days, and most of the rooms were shut up, the furniture under Holland covers and the drapes tightly drawn. Abovestairs, only the great hall, the library, and the study were cleaned on a daily basis.

As she entered the corridor, she nearly ran into Mrs. Hodges coming from the opposite direction.

“Mrs. Knightley.” The housekeeper’s gaze tracked over Emma. “Goodness, madam! Is everything all right?”

Clearly, she’d not done as good a job restoring her appearance as she’d thought.

“I’m fine. The walk from Hartfield was simply a bit dusty and warm.”

Mrs. Hodges peered toward the hall and frowned. “Now, where has that dratted footman gone off to? I told Harry to keep watch by the front door. I apologize, madam. Can I bring you something to drink?”

“Is Mr. Knightley in his study? If so, you can bring a pot of tea up there, if you wouldn’t mind.”

She nodded. “He is. And I’ll bring up a pot of—”

A startling boom echoed along the corridor, freezing them both. Emma’s heart skipped a few beats, then started pounding with urgent intensity.

That boom came from a gun.

“Heavens!” cried the housekeeper.

Emma grabbed her arms. “Where is Larkins?”

Mrs. Hodges gaped at her. “I . . . I believe he’s out by the stables.”

“Go there right now and tell him to come to the study. And tell him to bring a pistol or shotgun.”

“Mrs. Knightley, what is happening?”

Emma gave her a little push. “I don’t know, but hurry! Mr. Knightley might be in danger.”

The woman picked up her skirts and ran. Emma did the same, plunging down the long corridor. After the startling report of the weapon, an ominous silence now filled the air, broken only by the soft slap of her footsteps.

That silence terrified Emma.

She skidded to a halt at the door of the study and grabbed the doorframe to steady herself. Relief flooded her body. George was standing behind his desk. While he was clutching one arm, he was alive and whole otherwise. But he might not be alive and whole for much longer. Standing several feet in front of the desk was Mr. Elton, holding two pistols.

As she watched, he dropped one to the floor—obviously the one he’d just fired—and transferred the other weapon to his right hand.

George grimaced as he let go of his arm and held up a hand. “Philip, you don’t want to do this.”

A patch of the green woolen fabric of George’s coat sleeve was dark, obviously with blood. Emma’s head swam, and black dots swarmed across her vision.

Don’t faint.

She forced herself to suck in a deep breath. Then anger rushed in and cleared her gaze.

“Not true, Mr. Knightley,” Mr. Elton replied, sounding almost gleeful, as he pointed the weapon at George. “I definitely do want to do this.”

Emma stepped through the doorway. “Mr. Elton, you will stop right now!”

He jerked and then spun to face her before pointing the weapon straight at her . Then he stumbled back a few steps.

“Mrs. Knightley!” he exclaimed in a horrified tone. “What are you doing here?”

George sucked in a startled breath. “Emma, my God!”

When her husband started for her, Mr. Elton snarled at him. “Not another step, Knightley, or I will shoot you.”

“You will do no such thing,” Emma snapped as she stalked over to her husband. “Mrs. Hodges has already now run to fetch help, so you’d best put that pistol down while you can.”

Mr. Elton looked momentarily disconcerted before lifting a defiant chin. “I very much doubt that, Mrs. Knightley. When I approached the house, I checked to make sure that none of the servants were in the vicinity of the study.”

She ignored that bit of nonsense as she gingerly touched George’s injured arm.

“He only winged me,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “You must leave right now, my Emma.”

When he tried to push her toward the door, she resisted. “I’m not going anywhere, and certainly not while Mr. Elton is pointing a gun at you.”

“You’d best do as he says, Mrs. Knightley,” Elton replied. Clearly, he’d recovered from the shock of her surprise entrance. “My business is with your husband.”

She rounded on him, fixing him with a ferocious glare. “Your only business here should be to surrender to him. I know that you killed your wife and tried to cover it up by blaming others. Well, you will not get away with it. If you have a shred of integrity left in your character, you will put down that gun and submit yourself to justice.”

Far from being intimidated, he gazed at her with rapt attention and a feverish intensity, which raised the hairs on the back of her neck. It occurred to her that his senses had indeed become utterly disordered.

“Dear, dear Mrs. Knightley,” he said in a disconcertingly fond tone. “You should do as your husband advises and leave immediately. I should hate for you to see anything that would cause you distress.”

She stared at him. “Mr. Elton, have you gone entirely mad?”

“Not helpful, Emma,” George said through gritted teeth.

The vicar heaved a sigh. “Certainly not. That is most unkind, Mrs. Knightley. I expected better of you.”

“Good God! You murdered your wife and seek to murder my husband, and yet you expected better from me ?” Then her mind suddenly switched tack. “Wait, why do you want to murder George?”

When he cast her an indulgent smile, Emma began to wonder if she was the one losing her mind.

“Madam, I should think it obvious,” he gently chided. “I told you once how ardently I adored you, and that has never changed. You will always be the sole object of my affection, no matter what obstacles might stand between us. I seek only to eliminate those obstacles so we might have a future together.”

She gaped at him for an astounded moment before replying. “That obstacle obviously being my husband.”

“A husband who does not love you as you deserve. Knightley reprimands you, even in public, and lords it over you. Surely you can see that I’d never do that, Miss Woodhouse. I would treat you with the reverence and respect you so richly deserve.” He sneered at George. “Something your husband has failed to do.”

Emma exchanged on incredulous glance with George. Clearly, their vicar had gone insane.

“It is Mrs. Knightley ,” she said. “And it escapes me how you could have failed to see that I am very happily married. Until a short time ago, we thought you were happily married, as well.”

He casually waved his free hand. “After your cruel refusal, I had no choice but to look elsewhere. For a time, I found a degree of contentment with Augusta. But it was a false contentment, as I soon discovered. Having loved you, no other woman could ever measure up. You must believe me when I say that my affections for you are eternally fixed.”

Emma could only stare at him, horrified by his unnervingly placid smile. All these weeks she’d disciplined her imagination, avoiding flights of fancy. Apparently, she’d not been fanciful enough.

“And here I thought you were falling in love with Harriet,” was all she could think of to reply.

“Ah, Miss Woodhouse,” Mr. Elton soulfully said. “Who can think of Mrs. Martin when you are near?”

Was it only a few days ago that George had cautioned her against spending too much time in the vicar’s company? She’d thought her husband’s concern an overreach, but he’d had the right of it. Still, no one could have anticipated this deranged an outcome.

“She is Mrs. Knightley,” George said in a cold tone as he tried to pull Emma behind him. “And it is clear that you married Augusta Hawkins for her money. When she lost her money, you murdered her, and now you seek to murder me in the absurd hopes of persuading my wife to marry you. You will never succeed, Philip.”

Emma resisted George’s attempts to shield her with his body. She was quite sure Mr. Elton would not shoot her. Logically, he’d also lost his chance to shoot George and get away with it, but logic was clearly not top of mind with the vicar at the moment.

“George is correct,” she stated. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”

She stuttered to a halt as a truly sickening notion leapt unbidden into her head. Her chest grew so tight she could hardly squeeze out the words.

“You tried to poison my father, didn’t you?” she said with a gasp.

George let out a startled hiss before wrapping a protective arm around her waist and pulling her against him.

Mr. Elton simply shrugged. His manner suggested she’d accused him of some minor infraction, such as stealing apples from the orchard.

“What else could I do? Mr. Woodhouse was keeping us apart. If it’s any consolation, I’m pleased he survived the . . . episode. Your father clearly regrets his treatment of me and has recognized the error of his ways.”

When Emma thought of how closely death had stalked her father, her blood seemed to crystalize into icy little shards. “You are utterly insane.”

Something dangerous and ugly sparked in the vicar’s gaze. George’s arm tightened around her waist in silent warning.

“I have to say that you certainly fooled all of us, Philip,” her husband said in a conversational tone. “How did you manage it?”

Mr. Elton blinked, and the nasty gleam in his eyes faded, replaced by something like a smirk. “It was quite simple, really. I knew only Mr. Woodhouse drank the ratafia, and always from the decanter in the drawing room. He also told me once that he occasionally resorted to the drops. While you were all at dinner, I slipped in from the gardens into the drawing room. It took only moments to dose the decanter, and then I departed the same way.”

He all but preened with appreciation for his own cleverness. Emma was tempted to pick up the heavy brass inkwell on the desk and throw it at the vile man’s head.

Actually . . .

Perhaps that was not such a terrible idea. Holding a pistol for so long was bound to be tiring, and Mr. Elton’s arm must surely soon droop or waver. When it did, she would take her chance. They simply needed to keep him talking until the opportunity presented itself.

“I do not entirely comprehend your plan, sir,” she said with forced calm. “You intended to kill both my father and my husband, after which you expected me to marry you?”

He held up his other hand. “Yes, but after the appropriate mourning period, of course. I feel certain we would have grown very close during that time, as two bereaved spouses. Soulmates in tragedy, as it were.”

Disbelief got the better of her. “But with Mr. Suckling in prison, how could you possibly explain my husband’s murder?”

“The poultry thief, of course. He’s grown very bold, as you know. Mr. Knightley’s study contains several fine pieces, like that silver clock on the mantelpiece. It should not be difficult to make the case.”

“The poultry thief?” she exclaimed. “The man steals only poultry . Even my father wouldn’t believe it.”

Well, perhaps he would just a little.

“That is as ridiculous,” said George, “as your assertion that you love my wife. What you love is money and position. That is why you murdered Mrs. Elton.”

“I am in love with your wife,” Mr. Elton coldly replied. “But I will not deny that Augusta’s foolish behavior—not to mention Horace’s bungling—was the precipitating event.”

Emma had to ask. “How did you find out that Mrs. Elton had lost everything?”

A shadow seemed to flit across his face. “It doesn’t matter.” He gave the gun a little jerk, gesturing toward the door. “I will again ask you to leave, madam, and allow me to conclude my business with your husband.”

“Emma, please go,” George urgently murmured.

Of course the darling man wished to protect her, but she had no intention of leaving.

Still, she pretended to consider the vicar’s demand. “Mr. Elton, I will certainly not leave until you have answered my questions. You owe me that, if nothing else.”

The more he told them, the more time they would have.

He studied her, as if to measure the sincerity of her words. Emma kept her own gaze steady, while praying that William Larkins would soon come to their rescue. By now, Mrs. Hodges should have been able to run into Highbury and fetch half the town to help them.

Mr. Elton shrugged. “Very well, I will answer your questions. But then you must leave.”

She dodged making a promise. “Then I will ask again how you found out about the loss of your funds.”

“Some weeks ago, I began to harbor suspicions that all was not well. Augusta had grown strange by then, and she became particularly secretive around questions of money.”

“So,” George said, “Mrs. Elton did manage your finances. That was not a tale made up to divert suspicion.”

He sneered. “It was a mistake I shall not make again.”

Dead men can’t make mistakes.

At this point, Emma would happily escort him to the gallows herself. “Why didn’t you manage your finances yourself?”

“Augusta insisted that she and Horace be allowed to continue to manage her fortune. It was a condition of our union, you see, and included in the marriage settlements. In return, she agreed that I would inherit everything if she predeceased me, with nothing directed to Selina or even any children she might bear. The fact that she was in no great hurry to write a will was a show of her trust in me.” He snorted. “She thought herself so magnanimous, so much the great lady. But she was just a great fool to place herself in the hands of a scoundrel like Suckling.”

“And that letter you mentioned to my father. Is that how you found out that Mr. Suckling’s investments had failed?”

“Yes, although I found that letter before our . . . altercation in the church, obviously. It made it clear that Horace had no intention of helping us, since the state of his financial situation had made it impossible.” A ferocious scowl distorted his features, rendering him almost unrecognizable. “That was a lie, of course. It was to be expected from a man without an ounce of integrity running through his veins.”

“At least he never killed anyone,” Emma retorted.

George gave her another warning squeeze.

“Not that it matters,” she hastily added. “So, you found the letters, and then what? You confronted Mrs. Elton?”

Elton eyed her with suspicion but eventually nodded. “I demanded a full explanation. Initially, she was quite evasive, but I soon managed to get the truth out of her.”

An image of Mrs. Elton sprawled in a bloody heap on the floor filled Emma’s mind. Her heart ached with sympathy. The moment when the poor woman realized she was married to a madman must have been horrible indeed.

“How did you get her to go to the church?” George asked.

“And why was she wearing her pearl necklace?” Emma added.

Mr. Elton shifted, rotating his right shoulder, as if his arm was finally getting tired. But although his gun hand drooped a trifle, it was steady enough. Still, Emma casually dropped a hand down to the desk and rested her fingertips only inches from the heavy inkwell.

“I discovered the letters in the morning, while Augusta was out,” Mr. Elton replied. “By the time she returned home, I was quite . . . perturbed.”

“Of course you were,” she sarcastically replied.

Elton smiled approvingly, obviously taking her comment to be one of understanding. “Indeed. We had a tremendous row about it. Since I did not wish the servants to overhear us—at least more than they already had—I insisted we go to the church for privacy’s sake.”

Another piece of the puzzle slid into place for Emma. “And Mrs. Wright overheard you.”

He scoffed. “Some of it, yes. Fortunately, Augusta reassured that interfering old biddy that it was nothing. My dear wife didn’t wish to be embarrassed in front of the servants, you see,” he said in a sarcastic tone.

“Mrs. Wright was obviously very loyal to your wife,” George commented.

“She should have been loyal to me ,” the vicar snapped. “Instead, she caused a great deal of trouble, filling Augusta’s head with her nonsense.”

Emma tapped the top of the desk, a bit closer to the inkwell. “Did Mrs. Wright suspect that you had, er, feelings for me?”

That would certainly explain the woman’s ill will.

“Probably. Toward the end, Augusta accused me of caring more for your good opinion than hers, which she likely heard from Mrs. Wright.” He preened a bit. “Of course, that was true.”

It took a moment for Emma to wrestle her rising temper under control. “So you went to the church for privacy. But, again, I must ask why Mrs. Elton was wearing her pearls.”

“Ah, yes,” he replied with a genial nod. “Thank you for reminding me, dear madam.”

Mad as Mrs. Radcliffe’s monk.

“I insisted that Augusta hand over her jewels, as I would need to sell them,” he explained. “She must have feared I’d make such a demand at some point, because she’d taken to always wearing her best pieces or carrying them about in her reticule. But I had no intention of letting her escape with any of her jewels. They were all we had of any value besides her gowns and our silver service and china.”

Emma frowned. “Escape? What do you mean by that?”

“She threatened to retire to Maple Grove to live with her sister. Astonishing, really, that she would live with the man who’d ruined us all. You may be sure I forbade her to do so. I also informed her that I would do my best to ruin Horace and her blasted sister, just as they had ruined us.”

“I imagine she didn’t like that,” George quietly noted.

Elton’s gaze once more grew flat and hard. “She did not.”

“How did she respond?”

“She cursed at me and then slapped me.” He shook his head. “She was always a vulgar woman, but even I was surprised by such behavior. Apparently, my influence was not enough to temper the flaws in her character.”

Unbelievable.

Emma had to steel herself to ask the next question. “And how did you respond?”

He frowned, as if the question made no sense. “How do you think? I struck her back.”

“Good God,” George muttered, his voice heavy with disgust.

Just then, Emma caught a slight movement out on the terrace. Through the open terrace doors, she saw a shadow cast onto the stones just beyond the doorframe.

William Larkins.

Some relief flowed through her, making her painfully aware of how tightly she’d been holding her body. Finally, help was nearby.

A gentle squeeze at her waist communicated that George had also noted the movement. Larkins, an intelligent and sensible man, was no doubt waiting for the opportune time to strike. Now they had to continue to keep the vicar distracted.

“I assume that was when Mrs. Elton fell and bumped her head?” Emma asked.

“No, that happened when I took the necklace. We had a bit of a struggle, and I was forced to be quite rough. She fell, but it was really her fault. She should have done as I asked. After all, it’s a wife’s duty to obey her husband.” He again flashed her that bone-chilling smile. “It’s in one’s wedding vows, as you know.”

The deranged reply unleashed emotions Emma could no longer contain.

“But why?” she exclaimed. “Why not just let her go? Instead, you murdered her. And please don’t say that you did it for love of me, because I will not believe you.”

He bristled, clearly annoyed by her response. “She threatened to lodge a complaint against me to the bishop. She said she would ruin me as much as I had ruined her.” He chopped down his free hand. “Nonsense, of course. I have been the victim in all of this. I ask you, Mrs. Knightley, how did I ruin her ?”

“You married her,” she tersely replied.

“And it was your refusal that sent me off to her. You should have accepted me when you had the chance.”

Emma goggled at him. “So this is my fault?”

His calculating expression sent a chill deep into her bones. “In one sense, I suppose it is.”

If not for the gun, she would have picked up the inkwell and thrown it straight at his evil, swelled head. Again, a small squeeze from George urged caution.

“I imagine that made you quite angry,” he said in a steady tone of remarkable self-control. “Such a report from your wife—combined with the general scandal surrounding the Sucklings—would have been most distressing for the bishop.”

Mr. Elton shifted his shoulder, wincing slightly. “Yes, of course,” he replied. “Such a complaint would have destroyed any opportunities for advancement. I might have even lost the living here in Highbury. I could not allow that to happen.”

“So you had to kill your wife,” said George.

“What choice did I have? Surely you can see that, Mr. Knightley.”

He was a monster—a murdering, deranged monster hiding behind the mask of a grieving widower and mild-mannered cleric. Unbelievably, he’d convinced himself that he was the victim, and that all his subsequent actions had been justified by the wrong he thought done to him.

“There is always a choice,” George sternly replied.

“Says the wealthiest man in the parish. Mr. Knightley, you have no idea what it’s like to be raised as a gentleman and yet always forced to scrape by. Always forced to toady to the likes of you. Or to a man like Cole—or Horace Suckling,” he said, his tone thick with contempt. “I had finally escaped that life of constant little humiliations, and I have no intention of going back to it.”

George scoffed. “The only place you’ll be going is to the gaol.”

Mr. Elton narrowed his gaze. “Do not forget I am holding the pistol, sir.”

“I would suggest that you not forget you have only one try with that pistol,” Emma snapped. “You cannot shoot both of us.”

For a moment, he appeared genuinely shocked. “Dear madam, I certainly have no intention of shooting you.”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to let you shoot my husband, either.”

Unfortunately, Mr. Elton took that as a challenge, since he began to move around to the side, as if trying for a better angle to take a shot. Emma attempted to wriggle out of George’s grasp, hoping to use her body to shield him.

Unfortunately, her overprotective husband was doing the exact opposite and trying to wrestle her behind him.

“Stop it, George,” she ordered.

“Yes, George, stop it.” Mr. Elton sarcastically echoed her. “Only a few more inches will do it.”

“For God’s sake, how do you think you’re going to get away with this?” she exclaimed.

She surreptitiously glanced toward the terrace doors, but the late afternoon sun reflected off the windows. Where was Larkins, and why was he waiting?

“Larkins can’t get a clear shot,” he whispered in her ear, reading her thoughts.

“What are you saying to her, Knightley?” snarled the vicar.

“He’s simply trying to reassure me, sir,” Emma hastily replied.

Mr. Elton waved the gun. “Mrs. Knightley, you will—”

“I’m curious,” she said, interrupting him in a desperate gambit. “Why did you blame Miss Bates for your wife’s murder when you clearly intended to level that accusation against Mr. Suckling?”

He blinked a few times, as if taken aback. “At the time it hadn’t occurred to me to frame Horace for the crime. And if you’ll recall, I never truly accused Miss Bates.”

“Come, Mr. Elton. You did everything you could to cast her in a suspicious light.”

He scowled. “That stupid woman with her constant chattering. And that mother of hers, always silently comparing me to her husband—and finding me lacking, I have no doubt. Sadly, Augusta insisted on befriending them.” He waggled the gun again. “They caused me a great deal of trouble, along with that stupid Jane Churchill. So, when that promissory note came to light, you may be sure I was happy to take advantage of it.”

“But when that didn’t hold,” said George, “you decided to plant the necklace on Suckling. A very neat trick, since it would be returned to you, anyway, along with all your wife’s personal belongings.”

The vicar flashed an odd little smile. “Yes. It was worth a beating to see Horace hauled off like a common thief—which, I might add, he is. But even so, the jewels and the rest of it weren’t enough. I was certainly not exaggerating when I said I was near to impoverishment.”

“So you decided to kill Mr. Woodhouse and then me.”

“I already stated that I am thankful Mr. Woodhouse survived. You, however, do need to be removed. How else can Mrs. Knightley and I be together?”

“Good God,” Emma exclaimed. “You truly are deluded.”

Mr. Elton glared at her. “Deluded? Hardly. Every action I’ve taken has been carefully thought out, and with one goal in mind.”

“Not getting caught,” she retorted.

He narrowed his gaze on her. “If I got caught, then how could I marry you?”

Emma’s temper finally boiled over. “You are a small, contemptible toad of a man, and the very sight of you makes me ill. And you dare to compare yourself to my husband? It’s utterly ridiculous.”

His face darkening with fury, the vicar took a menacing step toward her. George pulled her back and around the other side of the desk.

“Are you going to shoot me?” she challenged, glaring at Mr. Elton.

“Get out of the way,” he barked. “Now.”

William Larkins stepped into the room, armed with a shotgun.

“Ho, Elton,” he called.

Startled, the vicar spun around, almost tripping over his own feet. He jerked up the pistol and fired, but Larkins had already ducked behind a settee. One of the terrace doors exploded, glass raining down as the pistol’s echo reverberated around the walls.

As George pulled her to the floor, Larkins was already moving. In a blur of motion, he swung up the butt of his gun and smashed Mr. Elton in the face. Without a sound, the vicar crumpled to the floor.

For a few moments, they all remained frozen, as if in a tableau.

“Good God,” Emma whispered.

George enveloped her in a fierce embrace. “It’s over, my darling. You’re safe.”

She twisted around to face him. His features were set in pale, strained lines.

“You’ve been shot,” she said as anxiety broke through her shock. She touched his shoulder. “I think you’re still bleeding.”

“He truly did only wing me. I promise I’m fine.”

Holding on to each other, they clambered to their feet and made their way to Larkins. The sturdy Irishman stood over Mr. Elton, gazing at him with undisguised loathing.

“I don’t think he’ll be waking up anytime soon,” said George.

“Better if the sneaky little bastard didn’t wake up at all.” Then Larkins glanced at Emma and grimaced. “Begging your pardon for the language, Mrs. Knightley.”

Emma huffed out a shaky laugh. “No apology necessary, Mr. Larkins. You have expressed my feelings precisely.”