Page 18 of Murder in Highbury
Oh dear.
George was now regarding her with a marked degree of irritation. It was an expression she hadn’t seen on his face since before their marriage, when they all too often argued over her behavior.
“In fairness,” she hastily added, “I completely forgot about it until I was giving Dr. Hughes my statement. It seemed a little thing at the time, and it went clean out of my head.”
“And what is this little thing?”
“When I went outside the church, I found something by the lych-gate.”
He waited for a few moments. When she didn’t immediately reply, his expression transformed from irritated to rueful. “Love, do you not trust me?”
She scrunched up her face by way of apology. “Of course I do.”
Her curious reluctance to tell him what she had found stemmed from a sense that she would be opening Pandora’s box. But opened it must be.
“I found a handkerchief in the grass by the lych-gate. Obviously, someone had dropped it there.”
Understanding dawned in his expression. “A lady’s handkerchief.”
“Correct.”
“But, Emma, there’s no way of knowing who dropped it or when. It could have been Mrs. Elton or someone else passing through the churchyard in the past few days.”
“But it rained yesterday, and the handkerchief was perfectly clean and dry. And I would recognize Mrs. Elton’s handkerchiefs. She used to boast that hers were acquired from a fashionable linen draper in New Bond Street. They were stitched with her initials and always heavily scented, too.”
“All right. What did you do with this mystery handkerchief?”
“Since I didn’t wish to leave the body unattended, I simply shoved it up my sleeve. I forgot all about it until I was changing for dinner.”
“Would you mind fetching it for me now?”
She went to retrieve the folded piece of cambric from the box on her dressing table. When she returned to the study, she gave it to George, who unfolded it and turned it over. Then he held it under the Argand lamp on his desk, inspecting it more closely.
“What is it?” she asked, leaning forward to look.
He pointed to one corner on the back side of the handkerchief.
Emma blinked. “Is that . . . ?”
“Blood? Yes, I believe it is.”
Stunned, she sank back into her chair. “I was in such a hurry that I didn’t notice that.”
“It’s just a small spot on one corner, so I’m not surprised you missed it.”
Emma rubbed her forehead. The events of the day finally seemed to catch up with her, and she suddenly felt very weary.
“Good God,” she whispered.
George carefully placed the handkerchief on his desk blotter and came round to take her hand. She clung to his fingers, comforted by his warmth.
“Emma, do you know to whom it belongs?” he asked.
She met his gaze. “The stitching seems familiar, but I can’t place it.”
He sighed. “We have to tell Dr. Hughes and Constable Sharpe. There’s a very good chance it’s evidence. And if you suspect whose it is, I’m afraid you’ll have to reveal that, too.”
“Yes, I know. It’s just that it might mean . . .”
