Page 60 of Murder in Highbury
Perhaps, but the fact thatboththe deceased’s husband and brother-in-law put on such a poor showing defied feeling and custom.
Emma pondered the odd lack of decorum that seemed to have afflicted so many in their little village. It was as if the intrusion of violence into their orderly lives had set Highbury and its residents all askew.
When Harriet let out a wistful sigh, Emma recalled herself. Her friend was clearly wishing to be with her husband—or, at least, to keep him away from Anne.
She stood and pulled the girl to her feet. “Harriet, go find Robert and ask him to take you home. The past several days have been very trying for you, and you should get some rest.”
Harriet looked torn. “I think I should stay, in case you need help.”
“Everything is perfectly under control. You’ve paid your respects to Mr. Elton, and there is certainly no need to spend more time around the Cox sisters. I cannot imagine how their mother puts up with them. If I were that poor woman, I’d be compelled to run away from home.”
As intended, that produced a giggle from Harriet.
Emma gave her friend a little push. “Off with you, dear.”
“Aren’t you coming back to the house?”
“I must find Mr. Knightley. I believe he’s in one of the gardens with guests.”
Even if she didn’t find George, a quiet stroll and a little think would be most welcome.
After hugging Harriet farewell, Emma set off for the lime walk. George may have taken some of the male guests for an excursion around the grounds, and that particular view was one of the best.
As she passed the strawberry beds, she exchanged greetings with Mrs. Goddard and a few of her teachers, who were strolling between the rows. Thankfully, no children were out trampling William Larkins’s beloved strawberry plants.
Emma shaded her eyes and peered ahead to the lime walk.
Drat.
There was no sign of George, so she supposed she should return to the great hall.
Suddenly, she heard angry voices rising from behind a stand of oak trees beyond the walk. One belonged to Mr. Elton. The other voice was belligerent and easily recognized.
Mr. Suckling.
She hesitated. While George would certainly counsel her to leave the men to their private discussion, Mr. Suckling struck her as the sort of man who could stoop to berating a grieving widower. She found the man’s bullying ways infuriating.
After stepping onto the grass, she sidled between the trees, where she could ascertain that Mr. Suckling was indeed upbraiding poor Mr. Elton.
“This is all your fault,” he barked. “Thank God Selina stayed in London, so she didn’t have to see how poorly you’ve managed things. Not one blasted funeral memento, not even for Knightley or Weston.”
“May I remind you that I was in the unenviable position of overseeing my own wife’s funeral service and committal?” Mr. Elton replied with dignity. “Be assured that I will see to the appropriate mementos in due course. And I fail to see why you should blame me for anything about this dreadful situation.”
“Because you were responsible for her, you fool. What Augusta saw in this ridiculous place—or you—is beyond me.”
Righteous anger almost propelled Emma from her hiding place, but burgeoning curiosity held her back.
She crept forward and peered around the trunk of a large oak. The men stood several feet away, their backs half-turned to her. Still, she could see their faces. Mr. Suckling’s beefy features were flushed and shiny from heat and an anger that all but shimmered in the air. Mr. Elton, by contrast, stood quietly, his face cast in shadow by his wide cleric’s hat.
“Augusta and I loved each other,” the vicar said in a flat tone. “We had a very happy marriage, and I doubt I will ever recover from this blow.”
“For a man who’s so devastated, you’ve made a bloody poor showing of her funeral. As you just pointed out, you’re the blasted vicar! And now you tell me you’re not going to place a commemorative monument inside the church? Why the bloody hell not?”
“Because it’s an old church, Horace, and there is no room left for a proper monument. And while you may be cavalier with my wife’s money, I will not spend it on a shabby memorial in a forgotten corner of the church.”
Mr. Suckling chopped a sharp hand. “Stop blithering nonsense. You need to honor Augusta’s memory in the proper fashion. Selina and I insist on it.”
“Augusta’s resting place is in the best part of the churchyard, under that beautiful beech tree. She was very fond of that tree. She said it was quite the best beech in all of Highbury.”
