Page 63 of Murder in Highbury
Nodding and encouraging this innocent—if fantastical—discourse as best she could, Emma led the vicar back to the house.
CHAPTER13
At the dressing table, Emma braided her hair in preparation for bed. After supervising the restoration of order after the lengthy reception, she and George had decided to spend the night at Donwell.
“I do hope Father is all right. He worries when I’m not home with him.”
George, reading by the fireplace, glanced up with a reassuring smile. “Other than telling you to be sure to avoid drafts in the corridors, he raised no objection.”
“I suppose his mind was full of Miss Bates. He insisted on taking her and her mother home in our carriage.”
“He is remarkably protective of Miss Bates.”
“They have been friends for a very long time, after all.”
“Miss Bates has many dear friends, including Mrs. Cole and Mrs. Goddard.”
Emma recognizedthatparticular tone. “George, what are you suggesting?”
He put down his novel. “I find it interesting that Miss Bates has come to rely so heavily on your father. He is not a person one would generally turn to in a crisis.”
“I’ll admit Father has been managing this entire murder business quite well. I thought he would be afraid to let me out of his sight.”
“One can only assume that your father accepts Constable Sharpe’s conclusion that Mrs. Elton’s killer is long gone.”
Emma finished off her braid and tied it with a ribbon. “It’s rather unsettling to see him acting so . . . decisively. I hardly recognize him.”
“We have all been upended by Mrs. Elton’s murder, as I’m sure you observed in the odd behavior of some of our guests today.”
“The circumstances didn’t disturb anyone’s appetite,” she wryly replied.
George chuckled before returning to his book.
After studying her husband for a few moments—always an enjoyable pastime—she rose and donned the cambric wrapper draped over the corner of the enormous four-poster bed. Despite her father’s admonitions, it was a lovely evening. A warm breeze wafted through the windows, barely ruffling the brocaded curtains.
Unable to resist the call of the summer-soft air, she wandered over to gaze out at the night-shrouded garden. The scents of roses and lilacs drifted up from below. In the distance, at the base of the meadow, she could hear the rippling stream merrily dancing in the darkness. Only the knowledge that a cold-blooded killer was at large shadowed the serene peace after so fraught a day.
“What is it, my Emma?” George quietly asked.
She smiled. “Do you always know what I’m thinking?”
“One doesn’t need to be a mind reader, given the events of the past few days.”
Joining him, she made to sit in the matching wingback chair, but he snagged her wrist and drew her onto his lap. She went with a contented sigh.
“I was thinking about a very odd conversation I had with Mr. Elton this afternoon,” she said.
“Given your mutual history, surely that is not a unique event.”
She rolled her eyes. “True.”
“What was so odd about this particular conversation?”
When she began to fiddle with a button on his waistcoat, he stilled her hand. “Emma, what aren’t you telling me?”
The dear, dratted man knew her too well. “I didn’t preciselyhavea conversation with Mr. Elton so much as overhear a conversation.”
His sigh ruffled her hair. “You were eavesdropping.”
