Page 145 of Murder in Highbury
“Madam, I should think it obvious,” he gently chided. “I told you once how ardently I adored you, and that has never changed. You willalwaysbe 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 vicarhadgone insane.
“It isMrs. 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 anticipatedthisderanged 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 areutterlyinsane.”
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 fatherandmy 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 onlypoultry. Even my father wouldn’t believe it.”
