She stood. “I’m not surprised that you’re tired after such a long visit. Come, Father, let me help you upstairs. I think you should take a bit of a rest before dressing for dinner.”
As Emma escorted him to his bedroom, she forced herself to speak cheerfully on other matters, particularly the decision by Jane and Frank to remain for some time in Highbury. Father agreed that they should host a dinner party for the Churchills very soon—as long as no cake was served. Under the influence of her soothing patter, he was soon stifling yawns. By the time she covered him with a blanket, he was already dozing off, with all thoughts of Mr. Elton or the poultry thief apparently forgotten.
Unfortunately, she could not forget so easily. The more she thought about her father’s conversation with Mr. Elton, the more disturbed she became. Fetching a light shawl from her bedroom, she decided to take a turn around the garden, now cooler and long with shadows in the late afternoon.
As she wandered aimlessly between the neat rows of rosebushes and shrubbery, her head buzzed with questions. When answers slowly began to rise up, in hardly more than whispers, at first, she pushed back, hating what her mind insisted on telling her. But as she sorted through everything she’d heard this day, both at Randalls and from her father, she could no longer keep her thoughts at bay. Pieces began to fall into the empty spaces of the puzzle. They were small pieces, to be sure, the little niggles that others had brushed aside.
But Emma could no longer brush them aside, because theyfit. And shehatedthat they fit.
Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she was letting her imagination run away with her again, because the logical conclusion of her thoughts seemed too horrible to be true. George would certainly advise caution, as he’d done so many times in the past. She could envision the skeptical slant to his eyebrows and his growing incredulity as she made her case that Mr. Suckling hadnotmurdered his sister-in-law, after all. Her husband would likely shake his head and gently scold her for letting her imagination run wild. More than anything, Emma would love to agree with him.
But her theory made too much sense to ignore, because it came down to that critical question again, which was, who stood to benefit the most from Mrs. Elton’s death? And perhaps even more important, who had been most harmed by her actions? Who had lost the most? At first blush, one could certainly say it was Mr. Suckling. He had indeed lost a great deal. But someone else had lost more. Someone else had lost everything he prized—money, social standing, even his ability to advance within his profession. Now that was all gone because the person closest to him had betrayed them both and risked everything, lost everything.
She sank down onto the bench under the oak tree and held her head in her hands. So much of what they knew about the murder, or what theythoughtthey knew, came from one source. They’d thought that source to be unimpeachable, beyond question. But he more than any other had controlled the information, doling it out in bits and pieces, pointing first in one direction and then another. And although she and others had certainly had their doubts or, like her father, had vociferously objected, no one had questioned the man’s motives. It had never even occurred to any of them to do so.
And yet, itallcame down to motive. Who among them had the strongest motive? It wasn’t Mr. Suckling—Emma was almost certain of that now. No, it was the one they’d never suspected, the one she had truly come to believe was a changed man.
She thumped a clenched fist against her forehead. How had she allowed it to happen again? How had she allowed him to misdirect heragain?
Unable to bear her own company a moment longer, she swiftly rose and set off through the gardens, heading for the gravel drive that would take her into Highbury and thence to Donwell. She needed to speak to George at once. He would listen to her, certainly with skepticism, but he would listen. Sheneededhim to listen.
If her theory proved to be correct, it would upend everything in ways that were hard to imagine—not only for them but also for Highbury. And only George, her unshakable, levelheaded magistrate of a husband, could be trusted to put it right again.
CHAPTER27
By the time Emma reached Donwell, she was dust covered and breathless. She’d all but raced past Randalls, where, for a fleeting moment, she’d considered stopping to enlist Frank’s support. But a disconcerting instinct had told her that she couldn’t afford the time, so anxiety had driven her on, like the gusting winds that foretold the approach of a storm.
She paused for a few moments, bracing her hands on her knees as she sought to catch her breath. It wouldn’t do to rush into her husband’s study like a madwoman. She probably looked like one, though, so she took a moment to smooth her hair and shake the dust from her skirts.
As usual on a summer’s day such as this, Donwell’s oaken front doors stood open to let in the fresh air. She hurried through the great hall to the corridor that led to the east wing. Unless he was out in the orchards with William Larkins, George was most likely down there in his study, working on the abbey’s accounts.
Thankfully, all seemed quiet. There were very few servants at Donwell these days, and most of the rooms were shut up, the furniture under Holland covers and the drapes tightly drawn. Abovestairs, only the great hall, the library, and the study were cleaned on a daily basis.
As she entered the corridor, she nearly ran into Mrs. Hodges coming from the opposite direction.
“Mrs. Knightley.” The housekeeper’s gaze tracked over Emma. “Goodness, madam! Is everything all right?”
Clearly, she’d not done as good a job restoring her appearance as she’d thought.
“I’m fine. The walk from Hartfield was simply a bit dusty and warm.”
Mrs. Hodges peered toward the hall and frowned. “Now, where has that dratted footman gone off to? I told Harry to keep watch by the front door. I apologize, madam. Can I bring you something to drink?”
“Is Mr. Knightley in his study? If so, you can bring a pot of tea up there, if you wouldn’t mind.”
She nodded. “He is. And I’ll bring up a pot of—”
A startling boom echoed along the corridor, freezing them both. Emma’s heart skipped a few beats, then started pounding with urgent intensity.
That boom came from a gun.
“Heavens!” cried the housekeeper.
Emma grabbed her arms. “Where is Larkins?”
Mrs. Hodges gaped at her. “I . . . I believe he’s out by the stables.”
“Go there right now and tell him to come to the study. And tell him to bring a pistol or shotgun.”
