Posted on Wednesday, 31 October 2007

"Emma, my dear," said Mr. Knightley to his wife, "I have some very unpleasant news."

"Why love, you look so serious!" she said, looking up from her letter-writing. "But nothing you say could ever be unpleasant."

"That's rather a stupid statement," said he, momentarily distracted.

"You are right. I don't know what made me say it. Go on with your news--I will try to bear it as no other woman/no one else in England/anywhere would have borne it."

"It's Mr. Elton," said Mr. Knightley gravely. "I'm sorry to say he is--dead."

"Dead!"

"Yes."

"Well, that's not so--Oh dear! What will my father say?"

Mr. Knightley shook his head. "It's even worse than you think, Emma. It appears Elton was murdered."

"Great God!" she cried. "We can't tell my father that."

"I don't know how we can keep it from him. It was rather violent. The whole town will be talking of it."

"How did it happen?"

"He was stabbed repeatedly with pencil stubs; they had been sharpened to a lethal point."

Emma sank down on the sofa. "Who would do such a thing? Of course his sermons have been particularly dreadful lately, but that doesn't seem any excuse for such a vengeful attack. Poison perhaps I could understand--"

"Emma!"

"Sorry, my love."

Three weeks passed and although the murderer had not been caught, the uproar in Highbury was beginning to die down naturally. Mr. Elton was quietly buried in the churchyard and nothing unusual had happened.

One day Emma received a morning call from Miss Bates.

“My dear Miss Woodhouse!” said that worthy lady. “Oh! I mean Mrs. Knightley of course! And I thought I had quite broken myself of the habit of calling you by your old name—but it is this shocking business that has upset me and put me quite out of mind. Why yesterday I said to mother, ‘I must call on Mrs. Knightley and thank her for sending that leg of lamb’ so you see I do call you Mrs. Knightley all the time; but then yesterday I was not so flustered by hearing such unpleasant news! I had thought to visit you for just a cozy, neighborly call, not to have something like this to—“

Emma was forced to interrupt, although she made it a rule never, never to show any rudeness to dear Miss Bates if she could help it; but there had been something in her speech that was confusing.

“Excuse me, dear Miss Bates, but you are not referring to the sad murder of Mr. Elton, then? For you said it was just today that you are so upset?”

“Oh no, not the murder, no indeed, although I did say to mother, ‘I don’t wonder they can’t catch the person who did it, for who could imagine doing such a thing, let alone a reasonable motive.’ The murderer must have been quite mad, and mad people are so difficult to catch, I have always heard. But then, Mrs. Knightley dear, you must not have heard the latest news! Oh! Dear me, I did not expect to have to tell you about it myself. I have a horror of breaking news to people, Mrs. Knightley. I have done it many times when I am forced to it, but it hurts me very much to give anyone pain, so I avoid giving people news whenever I can. I did pity Mr. Knightley last year, having to tell Mr. Martin about the terrible accident—well, I said to mother ‘I could not have done it, mother. And Mr. Knightley is a very compassionate man,’ I said, ‘I cannot understand how he can face that poor man. I would not be there for the world when he is told,’ I said to mother. Although to be sure, this is nothing like that. I mean it is not a death or anything, but I do think it is nearly as shocking. Never in Highbury!--I have never known such a thing. It shows a terrible want of any proper feeling, almost as much as the murder itself.”

“Oh Miss Bates,” exclaimed Emma, beginning to feel really anxious. “Please, I beg you, do not leave me in suspense! What has happened?”

“Well, it is the most shocking thing—“

“WHAT? What is it, for heaven’s sake?” said Emma, feeling murderous herself.

“Mr. Elton’s grave has been defaced!” said Miss Bates, for once impelled to speak concisely. “It is as shocking as can be—it must be another madman after all. I did not see it myself, but John from the shop said it was absolutely covered with bits of sticking plaster, all over the gravestone, which was only just put up, you know—as a matter of fact I have not seen the new stone up close, since it was put up, and now they may have to take it down altogether if it cannot be cleaned off.”

“Sticking plaster!” Emma cried, an awful feeling of dread clutching at her heart.

“Yes, that was odd, but it is by no means the worst part. The sticking plasters have been taken off, but the words seem resistant to cleaning—“

“Words?”

“Words written in blo—in red paint, across the face of the stone!”

“What did it say?”

“THEY CANNOT HELP YOU NOW!”

On Thursday letters written in crimson appeared overnight across the windows of Ford’s. Emma saw these herself when she walked into town to purchase some thread and ribbons. There was a crowd standing in the street.

“Probably some young prankster,” said Mr. Weston. “It is very wrong to be sure, but boys will have their wild fun sometimes. Why I remember when Frank, my son Frank Churchill you know—“

“Mr. Suckling would certainly not allow such a thing to occur!” interrupted Mrs. Elton. “If only my cara sposo was here; he would certainly put a stop to this…” she trailed off with a muffled sob. Emma saw that she looked very pale, and felt a sudden momentary compassion for her. Unfortunately the next minute Mrs. Elton noticed her and remarked, “Mrs. Knightley. And where is YOUR husband?”

As she could not possibly reply with any politeness, Emma stepped in closer to get a better look at the shop windows. The words read, “I REMEMBER WHAT YOU DID TO ME.” She shivered. It did not seem likely to her that the messages were a practical joke; and the red paint did look like blood. Besides—there was that terrible suspicion that lurked in her heart though she had not put a name to it. But pencils! And sticking plaster!

The next week, with still no murderer to be found, Mrs. Elton was found dead in her room by her maid. The inquest had drawn no conclusions, but everyone was saying it was suicide; that she had been overcome by grief and killed herself. Shocking accusation against a Christian woman—but Emma had other reasons for thinking Mrs. Elton would never commit suicide. “She never paid any attention to appearances, but she must say truthfully, all her friends insisted she made a very touching widow.” Emma suppressed a morbid giggle. No, Mrs. Elton thought far too highly of herself to end the game so quickly, and in such an undignified way—strangled in her own ballgown!

“You will think me fanciful perhaps,” Emma began cautiously to Mrs. Weston, as they walked through the gardens at Randalls. “But I cannot help wondering about Mrs. Elton. They seem connected somehow in the manner of their deaths—her and her husband.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Emma,” said Mrs. Weston. “They are connected, if as everyone suspects she made away with herself in sorrow.”

“I hardly know myself, dear Mrs. Weston, but it is as if someone was punishing them for their worst failings. He, stabbed to death with pencils!”

“My dear, you are letting your imagination run away with you as usual. You can’t think Mrs. Elton was the murderer!”

“No, I don’t mean that.”

“Well, I hardly think this is an uplifting topic for one in your condition. Let us go in and I will show you the little dresses I was embroidering.”

People can be in a state of shock only for so long. Highbury hardly even manifested much surprise when, the next day, the former parsonage was emblazoned with a mysterious legend in shining scarlet. Of course, the subject matter was a bit terrifying; but Mr. Weston’s theory of youthful pranks proved useful, as nearly everyone preferred that idea to the alternative of murderous madmen.

“YOU KNOW WHO WILL BE NEXT” this message read. Idle threats, tutted Miss Goddard, and opined that someone ought to be thoroughly thrashed. As it was, she could not in good conscience let any of the girls leave the school and it was becoming very inconvenient.

Emma was the only one who took the menacing words to heart. Mr. Knightley began to be anxious about her. She ate little and seemed so depressed that even her father noticed, and recommended a bowl of hot gruel. Mr. Knightley was as willing to try hot gruel as anything. Emma couldn’t sleep—she kept getting up to check if all the doors were locked and the windows bolted, and if she heard a sound she made him get up and patrol the halls of Hartfield. Just when she ought to getting plenty of restful sleep, too!

Sunday afternoon Robert Martin walked, as usual, to the graveyard. Many of the farmers and laborers he passed knew his errand and nodded to him, their Sunday smiles replaced quickly with serious or sympathetic frowns. Robert wished, for some reason unknown to himself, that they wouldn’t.

He knelt for some time before the white stone.

“Your cow had a fine calf this spring,” he said to it. “And Mrs. Elton’s gone too, but I suppose you know that. I miss you.”

Mr. Knightley was late getting back from the parish meeting on Monday, and Mr. Woodhouse was of course asleep at this hour. Emma pulled a shawl around herself, drew her dressing gown closer, and went down to the library to wait. She was somehow not surprised to see scrawled across the front door the words “YOU CANNOT ESCAPE” in red.

She could not decide whether it would be more foolish to creep around by the walls, or to walk confidently across the hall and hope nothing was following her. Emma finally made a dash for the library, flung open the door and shut it behind her, leaning against it. The room looked serene and undisturbed, and the fire had been expertly banked by someone; it should not be difficult to stir it up again and add a long. Feeling somewhat reassured, she did so—and as soon as the fire flared up she saw a white figure moving in the corner of her eye.

Emma dropped the poker and turned, and disturbingly the white thing did not vanish or prove to be merely a tablecloth fluttering in a draught.

“Er… Harriet?” said Emma, when they had looked at each other for some time and the spirit failed to attack or make any terrifying movements.

“You knew it was me, didn’t you?” said the ghost of the former Mrs. Martin with satisfaction. Its voice sounded just as it usually did in life: neither high and wailing nor a dreadful whisper, but rather petulant. It was really more horribly unsettling than the wail or the whisper would have been, Emma thought.

“Well, it was hard to miss, after the sticking plaster bit,” she said. The room wavered—perhaps she was dreaming.

“Hmph,” said the ghost, crossing its arms. “I didn’t think you would remember.”

“I did care about you, Harriet,” Emma protested.

“Oh yes, the generous Miss Woodhouse, the kind friend, the sweet teacher” scoffed Harriet, shimmering a bit in her rage. “I believed you really meant the best, for a while. How I admired you! Until…”

“I thought you were happy! Didn’t everything turn out well for both of us?”

“That’s easy for you to say, when you stole Mr. Knightley and made friends with Jane Fairfax!”

“Harriet… Mr. Knightley was never in love with you. I thought you realized that.”

“He was with me in my last moments, you know,” taunted the ghost. “It’s so romantic that I will do the same for him.” And it shrieked with maniacal laughter.

“No! You can’t!” cried Emma. “Don’t hurt him! He didn’t do anything to you!”

“He rejected me,” said Harriet’s ghost coldly. “You all rejected me. And you’ll all pay!”

“No, please—“

“Oh Miss Woodhouse!” wailed the ghost mockingly. “Oh Miss Woodhouse! Oh Miss Woodhouse!”

“No, no!” The room was spinning. The ghost whirled around her madly. “Harriet, no!”

Everything went black.

Emma woke to warmth and light. She was in her bed, and her husband was bending over her.

“Thank God!” he whispered. “Emma…”

“Now don’t smother her, Mr. Knightley,” said Mr. Perry, from the other side. “Would you like a sip of water, Mrs. Knightley?”

“Yes please,” she said groggily.

“What happened, Emma? Do you remember? Did you hit your head?”

“It was the ghost,” she said faintly. Mr. Perry shook his head and muttered something. “It said—oh, you’re all right! It didn’t hurt you!” She tried to reach for Mr. Knightley but found her arms were too weak.

“Who would hurt me, dearest?” he asked.

“It was Harriet! She did it! She’s the murderer.”

Mr. Knightley and Mr. Perry both looked at her oddly. “Harriet died a year ago. And there’s no need to worry about the murderer—they’ve caught him. I heard the news at the meeting last night. It was Robert Martin. Apparently his grief has unhinged his mind.”

Emma sank back on the pillows. “But I saw—“

“Mrs. Knightley,” put in Mr. Perry. “Your husband tells me you have not been eating or sleeping well. You must have fallen asleep and dreamed it, and in your weakened state you cannot discern dreams from reality.”

Emma had nothing further to argue, but she was not convinced.

The following day, feeling much stronger, she went out for a walk and found herself near the graveyard.

“Why not?” Emma said to herself, her good sense returning to her. “It will make me feel much better.” She walked slowly up the path, skirting by her own mother’s stone, already worn with age. There was the newer, sharper white marker on Harriet’s grave. She knelt by it and laid down the daisies she had plucked in the hedge. There was a bird singing from the eaves of the little church, and the shadows of the tree branches swayed gently over the grave.

“Ouch!” Emma yelped as she moved to get up. She bent down and fumbled in the grass for a minute before she found the object that had poked her.

It was the stub of a pencil.

The End