“He is looking into the matter from every angle,” she finally said.
Mr. Weston tapped the side of his nose. “Keeping it close to his vest, eh? Don’t want to start any rumors, do we?”
Too late, Emma remembered that Mr. Weston was rather a champion at starting rumors—or, at least, someone fatally incapable of keeping secrets.
“Let me just say that it would be wise to discuss such delicate matters only among ourselves,” she said.
Mrs. Weston gazed pointedly at her husband. “She means you, my dear.”
He had the grace to look sheepish.
“I’m grateful, though, to know as much as possible,” Jane said. “I’ve found it most distressing to be so in the dark. It makes one feel quite powerless.”
Frank was looking thoughtful. “This information doesn’t exactly clear Aunt Hetty, though, does it?”
“Not decisively,” Emma admitted.
“Then please know that I stand ready to help you and Mr. Knightley in any way I can,” he said in a determined tone. “We must clear Aunt Hetty’s name as soon as possible, not just for her sake but for Jane and Mrs. Bates, as well. Their health and peace of mind depend on it.”
Mrs. Weston began to look alarmed. “I’m sure Mr. Knightley is perfectly capable of handling matters on his own. There is no need for you—or Emma—to get involved.”
Jane touched her husband’s hand. “I have to agree, Frank. I’m not sure it’s wise to interfere.”
Mr. Weston scoffed. “Nonsense. Between the two of them, Frank and Emma have more brains than the rest of us put together. And since Emma knows everything that goes on in Highbury, how could she not be a tremendous help?”
Because both women were now frowning at their husbands, Emma felt it best to change the subject. “Well, we shall see. And before I forget, my father has charged me to invite you all to come to Hartfield for dinner tomorrow. He would love to see you, and it will be just the thing for Mrs. and Miss Bates.”
There were the usual hesitations and reluctances to inconvenience dear Mr. Woodhouse, but Emma stood firm. With the invitation finally accepted, she rose to take her leave.
“I’ll see you out,” said Mr. Weston. “Oh, the devil. I almost forgot to tell you, but you’ll certainly wish to know before Mr. Woodhouse finds out.”
Emma sighed. More trouble, apparently.
“It’s the poultry thief,” he explained. “The blighter is back, I’m afraid.”
Last year Highbury had experienced a rash of poultry thefts that had gone on for some weeks. Even Hartfield had not been left unscathed, which had greatly upset her father.
“He stole my best rooster and two of my hens,” complained Mrs. Weston. “We certainly do not need that scoundrel running about on top of everything else.”
“Maybe we can accuse him of Mrs. Elton’s murder, instead of Aunt Hetty,” Frank wryly suggested.
Jane sighed. “That is not in the least bit amusing, Frank.”
“Perhaps not, but it would certainly make life easier,” he replied.
If only it were that simple, Emma thought as Mr. Weston escorted her from the room.
Emma took a seat opposite her father in the drawing room, resigned to the fact that all her efforts to distract him over dinner had come to naught.
“I amquiteupset,” he exclaimed once again. “First, Mrs. Elton’s murder, and now that dreadful poultry thief has returned.”
She crinkled her nose to resist the urge to laugh. “I know, dearest, but you must admit that the two are quite distinct in both degree and kind.”
“It was a thief who killed Mrs. Elton, Emma. Who’s to say that it’s not this same villain? We could all be murdered in our beds!”
“The poultry thief breaks into only chicken coops. Besides, we have George to protect us, and James and the footmen, as well. We’re perfectly safe.”
“I’m not sure I will ever feel safe again. Who could have imagined Highbury becoming such a den of criminality? We grow as bad as the stews of London!”
