Page 102 of Murder in Highbury

“Now, see here, Mrs. Knightley—”

When George loudly cleared his throat, the constable subsided with a grumble.

“I think the more likely scenario,ifone accepts that Curtis did indeed murder Mrs. Elton—” George started.

“He did it, Mr. Knightley,” Mr. Sharpe interrupted.

George ignored him, looking at Emma instead. “If he did it, then I think it possible that his damaged hand forced him to use the candlestick to strike the final blow.”

An image of Mrs. Elton sprang into her mind, the ugly marks on the woman’s throat in high relief. Would a man with such an injury have the strength to do such a thing or do it with one hand?

“Perhaps,” she admitted. “But then why would he make such incriminating statements in public? It would be incredibly foolhardy.”

“Criminals aren’t generally known for their brains, Mrs. Knightley,” Mr. Sharpe said. “And hewasin his cups.”

“Very much into his cups if he were to all but confess to a murder in a public setting,” she sarcastically replied.

“Where is Curtis now?” George asked.

“Locked up in the cellar at the Crown. But as soon as we’re finished, I’ll be transporting him to the gaol in Guildford.”

“Surely that’s premature,” Emma exclaimed.

“Mr. Elton disagrees, ma’am. He’s very perturbed that the villain has been allowed to roam about Highbury, a danger to everyone.”

“I would like to speak to Curtis before you move him,” said George.

Constable Sharpe gave a vigorous shake of the head. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Knightley, but if you wish to speak to Dick, you can do so at the county gaol. The arrangements for transport have already been made.”

“Good heavens,” Emma said. “What’s the rush? If the magistrate wishes to speak to the accused, I cannot imagine any justifiable impediment to that.”

“Mr. Knightley can speak to him as much as he wants after he’s safely stowed away,” the constable huffily replied. “Dr. Hughes agrees with an immediate removal, for the safety of all in Highbury.”

She frowned. “This is ridiculous. How can Dick be a danger if he’s already locked up in the cellar?”

George’s gaze flickered her way, containing a clear warning.

Let me handle this.

“So you spoke to Dr. Hughes before coming to Hartfield?” he asked the constable in a bland voice.

Mr. Sharpe lifted his chin with pugnacious disdain. “It seemed the proper order of things. Heisthe coroner.”

“And I am the magistrate.”

“Indeed, sir, so you are surely aware that the poultry thief has struck again. The sooner I have Dick safely stowed away, the sooner I can go after that blighter.”

Emma found herself unable to hold her tongue. “One would almost think you believe the theft of chickens to be equal to murder.”

Mr. Sharpe glowered at her. “This thief is becoming bolder, ma’am. Why, he even raided the doctor’s chicken coop night before last.”

She sighed. “I suppose that explains our coroner’s eagerness to dispose of Dick Curtis.”

The doctor was a devoted fancier of several rare breeds of hens. When not attending to his patients—or dead bodies—he was often to be found out in his gardens, cooing over his hens with paternal affection.

The constable turned his shoulder on her to address George. “I’ve got reports from some neighboring farms, as well, including one in your parish, sir. Donwell, that is.”

“I am aware that Donwell is my parish,” George dryly replied.