Page 4 of Murder in Highbury
Harriet, oblivious, pelted out to the street.
“Drat,” Emma muttered.
Well, it was a very warm day, so she could only hope that the street would be quite deserted and that Harriet wouldn’t bump into Miss Bates.
Miss Bates and her elderly mother lived in a small set of apartments overlooking the high street. And although she was a dear and kind woman, Miss Bates relished nothing so much as sharing news and gossip as widely as possible. If she were to get wind of this hideous situation, half the village would know of it within minutes and no doubt descend upon the church.
While she pondered that alarming thought, Emma stood in the doorway of the porch, keeping to her word to remain out of harm’s way. But as the minutes crept by, she found it almost impossible to remain still. Too many questions troubled her. Why had Mrs. Elton come to the church? How could she possibly slip and fatally injure herself? The chancel steps were shallow and covered in a sturdy red carpet. Mrs. Elton was not infirm to any degree, nor was she particularly clumsy. And how could a simple fall account for those marks on her neck?
As abhorrent as the idea might be, she had to acknowledge the likelihood that Mrs. Elton had met with foul play. But from whom and why? Had she arranged to meet someone and fallen into some sort of dispute? But, really, what sort of dispute could lead to her murder? While generally disliked by the locals, shewasthe vicar’s wife. And while Emma had no patience for Mr. Elton—he had made anexceedinglyforward marriage proposal to her the Christmas before last and had responded quite nastily when she’d refused him—the vicar was a well-regarded man. As far she knew, he had no enemies.
When she glanced toward the street, there was no sign of anyone. George was likely at his estate at this time of day, so no doubt it would take time to fetch him. But unless Dr. Hughes was out on a call, Harriet should be returning with him very soon.
Growing a trifle bored, which showed an unfortunate lack of sensibility on her part, Emma stepped back into the church. Surely there could be no harm in seeking respite from the hot sun. Even if Mrs. Eltonhadbeen murdered, the perpetrator was certainly long gone, leaving a mystery that George would be called upon to manage and help solve. Her husband already had so many responsibilities. Donwell Abbey, the Knightley family seat, greatly occupied his time, and there were also his duties as magistrate. George was so busy that sometimes Emma barely saw him until they sat down to dinner at Hartfield.
And now this murder in the church would cause a terrible uproar in their village. Vulgar speculation would abound, along with a degree of hysteria that would make life more difficult for Emma’s already overworked husband.
When it came down to it, Mrs. Elton was proving to be just as difficult in death as in life.
Emma mentally winced, ashamed to entertain such an ugly thought. It wasn’t Mrs. Elton’s fault that she was now an undignified heap on the steps of the chancel. After she had suffered such a terrible death, to be left alone on a cold stone floor seemed an additional insult.
She squared her shoulders, refusing to lurk like a frightened rabbit at the back of the church. Although she and Mrs. Elton had cordially despised each other, the least she could do was keep watch over the unfortunate woman’s corpse until George and the doctor arrived.
After marching up the aisle, she came to a halt by the body. Mrs. Elton’s face had turned a mottled shade of gray, and her lips a ghastly shade of blue. As for her eyes . . .
Sinking down into the nearest pew, Emma struggled to catch her breath. Mrs. Elton’s eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets in a fixed glare, as if she were tremendously offended. Since Mrs. Elton had been a woman who was frequently offended in life, Emma supposed it was only natural that she would feel equally put out to meet such an undignified end.
Still grappling with a sense of disbelief, she glanced around their pretty little church. Questions and secrets lingered in the air like dust motes in a sunbeam. Her gaze alighted on the stained-glass window on the south side of the church, with its commanding depiction of St. Michael, a sword of justice in one hand and the scales on which to weigh souls in the other. It was an ironic counterpoint to the scene in front of her, and she couldn’t help thinking that the archangel looked almost as offended as poor Mrs. Elton.
If only he could speak.
Had Mrs. Elton simply been unlucky and encountered a thief? Yet nothing seemed to be missing. The large brass candlesticks were still on the altar, and the linens were undisturbed. Of course, a thief could have gone into the vestry, where the cupboards contained some excellent silver, including an antique chalice and paten.
Emma rose and headed up the steps onto the chancel. She could at least take a quick peek into the vestry and ascertain if anything was missing.
She stopped when, from her left, there came the sound of quick footsteps and then a door clicking shut. It was the vestry door, the only other entrance to the church. She froze on the top step, trying to think over the pounding of her heart. Was her overwrought mind playing tricks on her? Because if not, it meant that someone had indeed been in the vestry, possibly for the entire time she’d been in the church.
Glancing behind her down the nave, she recalled her promise to Harriet. At the first sign of trouble, she was to leave the church immediately. Hesitating, though, she strained her ears. A deep silence once more settled over the church.
Nothing ventured, Emma.
Ignoring the warning voice in her head—which sounded remarkably like her husband’s—she hurried up to the altar and grabbed one of the brass candlesticks. It was so heavy that she almost dropped it. Still, it might make for an effective weapon, if need be.
She fervently hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
After creeping across the remaining distance to the vestry, she darted a look inside the room.
It was empty, and the door leading outside was half-open. The latch had obviously not caught. Mr. Elton had complained more than once about the faulty latch that needed to be repaired.
Emma hurried across to the door. It opened onto a gravel path that led around the back of the church to the lych-gate. That gate was now swinging in the gentle breeze. She rushed over to it, but there was no one in sight. The graveyard was deserted, as was the path that led out to the street.
After a brief internal debate, she decided it was pointless to attempt a pursuit. Whoever had been hiding had too great a start on her and had no doubt already disappeared. Besides, rushing down the street, brandishing a candlestick, would certainly attract just the sort of notice she was trying to avoid.
Turning back, she caught a flutter of white fabric in the grass by the gate. Frowning, she stooped to pick it up. It was a fine handkerchief made of cambric and edged with a particularly elegant stitch. It obviously belonged to a woman, and Emma had the feeling she’d seen the handkerchief before, or at least one with a similar sort of handiwork. She closed her eyes for a moment, pursuing the elusive wisp of memory that floated just beyond her grasp.
With a mental shrug, she finally opened her eyes and tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve. She’d give it a more thorough inspection later.
She returned to the vestry, where a quick check showed that nothing was disturbed and that the cupboards were intact and locked.
