Page 36 of Murder in Highbury

“Never mind. I’m going to Ford’s, so come with me. If Miss Cox is still there, I will make any necessary cutting remarks.”

Harriet flapped a hand. “That’s not really what I wanted to tell you. Miss Cox also said some awful things about poor Miss Bates. She said Miss Bates had something to do with Mrs. Elton’s murder.”

If Emma were inclined to salty oaths, she would be employing one right now. “What exactly did she say?”

“That her mother saw Miss Bates running away from the church on the afternoon of the murder. She was in a terrible fluster and acting very suspicious—like she’d seen a ghost, Mrs. Cox said.”

“Not a ghost, but a dead body.”

Harriet gasped. “Mrs. Knightley, whatever do you mean?”

“Where is Miss Cox now?”

“Still at Ford’s. We saw Mrs. Cole and Mrs. Gilbert through the window, and she was very eager to speak with them. I didn’t know what to do, so I was running to Hartfield to find you.”

Emma started to march her in the direction of Ford’s. “That was very quick thinking, Harriet.”

“But whatever did you mean about Miss Bates?”

“She was indeed at the church. In fact, she discovered Mrs. Elton’s body a few minutes before we did.”

Harriet practically skidded to a halt in the middle of the square. “What?”

“I’ll explain later. That dreadful Anne Cox will undoubtedly spread very unhelpful rumors if we don’t stop her.”

They hurried along until they reached Ford’s, where Emma paused to catch her breath. She must be calm and act as if she and Harriet had simply happened upon whatever conversation was taking place there.

As casually as she could, she gazed into the wide bow windows of Highbury’s principal millinery shop, pretending to inspect the display of bonnets. What she saw inside was alarming—Anne and her sister, Susan, in close conversation with Mrs. Cole and Mrs. Gilbert. Mrs. Ford hovered on the edges of the conversation, unnecessarily rearranging a pile of gloves.

“Blast,” she muttered.

“Mrs. Knightley!” Harriet exclaimed.

“Now, Harriet, when we go in, we must pretend that nothing is wrong. We must not inflame scurrilous gossip.”

“But how will we do that?”

“Leave it to me. Just act as if we were going about our business and happened to stumble upon the conversation. Understand?”

Harriet looked dubious. But she always trusted Emma, so she squared her shoulders as if going into battle. “Lead on, Mrs. Knightley.”

Emma swept into the shop, Harriet in her wake. Anne and Susan spun around, their eyes bulging like those of sheep startled by a loud bang. Mrs. Cole and Mrs. Gilbert also looked rather, well, sheepish, which confirmed Emma’s suspicions.

“Good morning,” she said with a bright smile.

Mrs. Cole came to her, concern marking her pleasant features. “Mrs. Knightley, such a dreadful business, and such a shock for you and poor Harriet. We have just been talking about it, and we are all quite worried on your behalf.”

“We are both perfectly well, Mrs. Cole, thank you,” Emma replied. “And how are your daughters? I hear from Mrs. Weston that they are making great strides on the pianoforte.”

Mrs. Cole looked a trifle daunted by such an ordinary reply, but she managed a smile and replied that her daughters were developing into regular prodigies.

Mr. Cole had been successful in trade, and he and his family lived in a style second only to that of Hartfield. Since they had a great love of society, they were forever hosting dinners, card parties, and musical evenings. Emma and her father had eventually been drawn into their social set through the intervention of Frank Churchill and the Westons. And although Mrs. Cole had a marked tendency to gossip—a flaw Emma had to admit she also possessed on occasion—she was a genuinely kind and charitable person, as was her husband.

“And how is Mr. Cole?” Emma asked after Mrs. Cole had finally run out of things to say about her daughters.

That proved to be a disastrous inquiry. “Very disturbed, I’m sorry to say. Dr. Hughes has issued his jury summons for the inquest, and Mr. Cole is on the list. We are all of us very upset by Mrs. Elton’s murder, of course, but Mr. Cole is particularly engaged with business at this time of year. A jury summons is quite inconvenient, Mrs. Knightley.”

Not as inconvenient as having one’s head bashed in.