Page 111 of Murder in Highbury

She scowled. “I would dearly love to give Dr. Hughes a piece of my mind for spreading about his idiotic theory these past two days. The entire village has been abuzz with it. Fortunately, I was able to persuade my poor father to drink a glass of ratafia while he reads his book. That should help him sleep, and Simon will check on him in a bit.”

“Then all is well. Now, come sit with me. It’s a beautiful evening, and the fresh air is delightful.”

He drew her to the sofa. Now that her father was in bed, George had dared to open the French doors so they could enjoy the rose-scented breeze drifting in from the gardens. Emma gratefully let go the stresses of the day and drank in the evening’s quiet beauty as dusk descended on the landscape and transformed the oaks into shadows that towered toward the azure-blue sky.

After turning slightly to study her husband, she took in the abstracted frown marking his brow. “What are you thinking about?”

He glanced at her with a quick smile. “I am relishing the chance to spend a quiet evening with my wife. For once, there are no guests in need of reassurance and no crises looming before us.”

“Indeed. We managed to go an entire evening without resorting to smelling salts or restorative glasses of brandy.”

“In my case, sometimes more than one restorative glass,” he dryly replied.

“I confess to being tempted to reach for the smelling salts more than once.”

“Then we must hope those trying days are now behind us, and that life will soon return to normal.”

She waggled a hand. “We can hope that, but is it likely?”

A grimace was his answer.

After a few moments, she gently poked him in the shoulder. “So, you’re not really enjoying the peace and quiet. You’re thinking about the investigation.”

“Yes.”

“Dearest, what part in particular troubles you?”

He lifted his brows. “Why do you think I’m troubled?”

“Any sane person would be. The entire thing has turned into a farce, thanks to our coroner. Besides, I can always tell when you’re troubled or frustrated.”

Since she’d been a major source of frustration for George in times past, Emma had come to recognize the signs.

He kissed her hand before rising to his feet. Despite his claim to the contrary, he had been restless since returning from Donwell before dinner.

After wandering over to the open doors, he braced a hand on the frame and gazed out into the deepening dusk. Emma took a few moments to appreciate her husband’s broad shoulders and tall, masculine physique.

“I suspect you would also feel a certain degree of frustration if you’d spent much of the morning with Dr. Hughes and Constable Sharpe,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Frankly, I barely managed to keep my temper.”

“You’re the magistrate, dearest. You’re not allowed to lose your temper, no matter how silly or irritating people might be.”

His smile was wry as he turned to face her. “A particularly annoying aspect of the position.”

“Can I assume that Constable Sharpe agrees with Dr. Hughes regarding the poultry thief turned cold-blooded killer?”

“Yes, although he resisted the theory for quite some time. Dr. Hughes was not pleased about that.”

Sharpe’s change of view was surprising. “How astonishing. I had not supposed Mr. Sharpe capable of such a sensible view. But he did capitulate, obviously.”

“I believe it stemmed mostly from the fact that he is lacking in credible suspects. He’s even given up on Miss Bates, although not for want of trying. Fortunately, I managed to finally disabuse him of her purported guilt.”

She rolled her eyes. “Then he’s not so sensible, after all, if he could go straight from one silly theory to another.”

“Dr. Hughes didn’t leave him much choice.”

“Has either of them provided an explanation as to why a common poultry thief would even be in the church, much less murdering Mrs. Elton?”

“Sharpe did venture the possibility that the thief was already lurking about the vicarage gardens, preparing to raid the chicken coop.”