Page 149 of Murder in Highbury

“Come, Mr. Elton. You did everything you could to cast her in a suspicious light.”

He scowled. “That stupid woman with her constant chattering. And that mother of hers, always silently comparing me to her husband—and finding me lacking, I have no doubt. Sadly, Augusta insisted on befriending them.” He waggled the gun again. “They caused me a great deal of trouble, along with that stupid Jane Churchill. So, when that promissory note came to light, you may be sure I was happy to take advantage of it.”

“But when that didn’t hold,” said George, “you decided to plant the necklace on Suckling. A very neat trick, since it would be returned to you, anyway, along with all your wife’s personal belongings.”

The vicar flashed an odd little smile. “Yes. It was worth a beating to see Horace hauled off like a common thief—which, I might add, he is. But even so, the jewels and the rest of it weren’t enough. I was certainly not exaggerating when I said I was near to impoverishment.”

“So you decided to kill Mr. Woodhouse and then me.”

“I already stated that I am thankful Mr. Woodhouse survived. You, however, do need to be removed. How else can Mrs. Knightley and I be together?”

“Good God,” Emma exclaimed. “You truly are deluded.”

Mr. Elton glared at her. “Deluded? Hardly. Every action I’ve taken has been carefully thought out, and with one goal in mind.”

“Not getting caught,” she retorted.

He narrowed his gaze on her. “If I got caught, then how could I marry you?”

Emma’s temper finally boiled over. “You are a small, contemptible toad of a man, and the very sight of you makes me ill. And you dare to compare yourself to my husband? It’s utterly ridiculous.”

His face darkening with fury, the vicar took a menacing step toward her. George pulled her back and around the other side of the desk.

“Are you going to shoot me?” she challenged, glaring at Mr. Elton.

“Get out of the way,” he barked. “Now.”

William Larkins stepped into the room, armed with a shotgun.

“Ho, Elton,” he called.

Startled, the vicar spun around, almost tripping over his own feet. He jerked up the pistol and fired, but Larkins had already ducked behind a settee. One of the terrace doors exploded, glass raining down as the pistol’s echo reverberated around the walls.

As George pulled her to the floor, Larkins was already moving. In a blur of motion, he swung up the butt of his gun and smashed Mr. Elton in the face. Without a sound, the vicar crumpled to the floor.

For a few moments, they all remained frozen, as if in a tableau.

“Good God,” Emma whispered.

George enveloped her in a fierce embrace. “It’s over, my darling. You’re safe.”

She twisted around to face him. His features were set in pale, strained lines.

“You’ve been shot,” she said as anxiety broke through her shock. She touched his shoulder. “I think you’re still bleeding.”

“He truly did only wing me. I promise I’m fine.”

Holding on to each other, they clambered to their feet and made their way to Larkins. The sturdy Irishman stood over Mr. Elton, gazing at him with undisguised loathing.

“I don’t think he’ll be waking up anytime soon,” said George.

“Better if the sneaky little bastard didn’t wake up at all.” Then Larkins glanced at Emma and grimaced. “Begging your pardon for the language, Mrs. Knightley.”

Emma huffed out a shaky laugh. “No apology necessary, Mr. Larkins. You have expressed my feelings precisely.”

CHAPTER28

Emma and her father entered the drawing room, with a solicitous Mrs. Weston in their wake. Since the evening had grown cool, one of the footmen had built up a blazing fire in the grate and strategically placed screens around the chairs and settee.