Murder at Donwell Abbey, page 15
Ducking under the lintel, she followed her nephew past the cellar entrance, with Harriet in the rear.
Emma couldn’t see much, since the weak afternoon light illuminated only the entrance. Still, she got the impression of a space larger than anticipated.
When Henry started forward, she clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Wait, dear. There might be holes in the floor. We need the lantern.”
The boy expelled an aggrieved sigh but held fast.
Emma glanced at Harriet. “Are you warm enough?”
Her friend nodded. “It’s not as chilly as I thought it would be.” She glanced down. “Or as dirty. The floor around here seems rather clean.”
Emma followed her gaze, and was surprised to see only some dust. “I wonder if Mr. Larkins is using this cellar for storage after all. I know the attics are full of furniture and various items, so perhaps he’s using this for overflow.”
“Or he might be storing cider,” Henry suggested. “Uncle George said Donwell had a bumper apple crop this year, and it made an awful lot of cider.”
Emma turned around at the sound of footsteps. “Ah, here’s Harry.”
The footman joined them, lantern in hand. “Do you want me to go ahead of you, Mrs. Knightley? That way I can see if there’s anything nasty.”
Consternation crossed Harriet’s face. “What do you mean by nasty?”
“Big spiderwebs. Maybe even a snake.”
“Oh dear,” Harriet faintly replied. “Snakes?”
Emma grabbed the lantern. “There are no snakes. And even if there were, they would be hibernating at this time of year.”
She held the lantern high, letting its rays play over the space in front of them.
“Goodness,” she murmured.
It was an undercroft, and a large one. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the chamber stretched almost halfway under the abbey. The floor and the walls were old but well-made brick, likely from the original construction. The brick ceiling was vaulted, held up by sturdy arches.
“This is quite something, isn’t it, Henry?” Emma commented.
Henry peered at the ceiling. “It’s an undercroft, not really a cellar at all.”
Harriet squeaked. “I thought undercrofts were used to bury the dead.”
“Aye,” said Harry. “I heard tales that some of the old monks were buried down here.”
“That is certainly not true,” Emma crisply replied. “You may go, Harry.”
“Are you sure, Mrs. Knightley?”
“Mrs. Hodges will be wondering where you are. You don’t want to annoy her.”
At that verbal prod, his eyes went wide. “Yes, ma’am.”
When he turned and clattered hastily up the steps, Emma had to stifle a laugh.
“Mrs. Knightley, are you sure there are no monks buried here?” Harriet asked in an anxious voice.
“Quite certain. The monks’ graveyard is north of the abbey. It was destroyed after the Dissolution, and it’s mostly woodland now.”
Harriet grimaced. “The poor monks.”
“Indeed. Henry, make sure you stay in the light.”
“Yes, Auntie Emma,” he replied as he wandered ahead.
Emma began to walk around the perimeter of the chamber. She was pleased to see it had no visible signs of damp. Likely, it had once been used as storage space for ale and cider. Since George intended to increase production of both those commodities, this undercroft would be put to good use.
She held up the lantern. “Henry, where are you?”
He scampered back out of the gloom. “Here I am.”
His pants and shoes were now covered with dust. “Hmm. Not so clean here after all, I see.”
“Only toward the back.” Henry pointed down to the floor. “See, it’s clean here by the front.”
She turned in a slow circle, casting the lantern’s rays onto the floor. “That’s rather odd.”
“Maybe the wind comes under the door and blows the dust toward the back,” Henry suggested.
“Perhaps.” Emma glanced up to see Harriet standing by the doorway. “Are you all right, dear? I assure you, it’s perfectly dry and safe.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Knightley,” her friend replied. “It’s the smell. It’s making me queasy.”
Emma took an experimental sniff. “I suppose it’s rather musty from being closed up for so long.”
“It smells like tobacco to me. It’s because I’m …” Harriet pointed at her stomach. “I’ve become very sensitive to odors. Poor Robert has to go outside to smoke his pipe because I can’t stand the smell of the tobacco.”
Emma didn’t smell anything akin to tobacco, but she wasn’t going to make her friend suffer with a queasy stomach.
“Come along, Henry,” she said. “We don’t want Mrs. Martin to become ill.”
“I’m fine,” Harriet protested. “I’ll just go stand outside.”
Emma took her arm and escorted her to the stairs. “Nonsense. We’ll get you a nice cup of tea, and then I’ll ask Harry to walk you home.”
Harriet gave her a grateful smile. “There’s no need for Harry to put himself out.”
Henry skipped ahead of them. “I’ll walk you home, Mrs. Martin. I’d like to check the pond and see if it’s frozen yet for skating.”
Emma closed the door to the undercroft and followed the others up the stairs. As they approached the kitchen, the door opened and Larkins came out.
“I was just coming to look for you, Mrs. Knightley. Mrs. Hodges said you were down in the old cellar.”
“It’s really more of an undercroft, isn’t it? I had no idea there was one so big under the abbey.”
“I understand it was used for storing cider and ale, as well as the cheeses the monks used to make.”
“I was surprised at how clean it is.”
Harriet crinkled her nose. “Except for the smell.”
Larkins frowned. “What smell is that, Mrs. Martin?”
“Harriet thought it was tobacco,” Emma explained, “but I couldn’t smell it. I don’t suppose anyone was storing tobacco down there, were they?”
“Not for a long time, if ever.” Then he scowled. “Mayhap it’s Harry smoking his pipe. He’s been told more than once not to smoke in the house. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was sneaking off there to have a smoke.”
No wonder Harry tried to stop them from going in there.
“We cannot have that,” Emma replied in a humorous tone.
“I’ll speak to him, ma’am.” Larkins looked most put out. “He won’t be doing it again.”
She waved a hand. “I shouldn’t worry about it.”
“And I might be wrong about it being tobacco,” Harriet hastily put in. “I don’t want to get the fellow in trouble.”
Larkins snorted. “The fellow is never out of trouble.”
It would seem that their estate steward had as little use for Harry as their housekeeper did.
“Whatever you think is best. Oh, Larkins,” Emma said, after pausing for a moment. “Harry said that you installed new locks on all the outer entrances last year. May I ask why?”
“Just a precaution, ma’am. We’re a big house with a small staff, and it’s best to have the place as secure as possible.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Harry thought it might have something to do with the poultry thief. Have there been any incidents of thieving?”
“As I said, ma’am, it was just a precaution.” He scowled. “And Harry would do best to keep his opinions to himself, if you don’t mind me saying. Now, if you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I’d best be at my work.”
He tipped his hat and strode off toward the stables.
“Is Mr. Larkins unwell?” asked Harriet. “He’s generally so even-tempered.”
Emma stared after the estate steward as he disappeared into the stables.
“Generally, yes, he is,” she absently replied.
Larkins’s unusual behavior was yet another sign that, despite appearances, life was far from normal at Donwell Abbey.
CHAPTER 14
Emma’s father gazed morosely out the carriage window. “I cannot fathom how I allowed myself to be talked into this frightful outing. One can tolerate going to Randalls for Christmas dinner, but to travel all the way to the Coles … that is quite shocking!”
Emma exchanged a glance with Isabella, sitting next to Father on the opposite side of the carriage. Unfortunately, her sister looked almost as out of sorts with this excursion as he did.
“I know, dear, but Mrs. Cole’s house is actually closer to Hartfield than Randalls,” Emma apologetically said.
He sighed. “If you say so. But you know how I feel about parties, Emma, especially large parties.”
“The Coles are simply hosting a lovely dinner in honor of your betrothal, not a large party at all. And Miss Bates is very excited about it.”
“Well, I suppose we must hope there will be no accidents tonight, particularly fatal ones. Or that one of the guests doesn’t arrive with an infectious complaint. That would be most distressing.”
“Emma!” exclaimed Isabella. “You didn’t tell me that one of the guests might have an infectious complaint. Do I need to worry about the children?”
Emma resisted the urge to thump her head against the padded side of the carriage. “No one has an infectious complaint. Mrs. Cole made it very clear to all the guests that they were to send their excuses if any of them had so much as a sniffle.”
Isabella gave her a sheepish smile. “That was very kind of her.”
Although no one in the family was particularly enthused about this party, it might still have its uses. The Coxes were on the guest list, at Miss Bates’s request, which would give Emma the opportunity to observe William Cox in a more intimate setting. Perhaps it might even give her the chance to ask him about Prudence—very discretely, of course.
The past several days had been uneventful. Despite her best efforts, Emma had been unable to unearth any additional information about William Cox and his connection to Prudence, from either the servants or anyone else. Sadly, when she’d shared her frustrations with George, he’d rather tartly replied that the lack of any such information no doubt illustrated that William had nothing to do with Prudence’s death.
Emma, however, remained unconvinced that it did not. Her instincts had served her well last year in helping to bring Mrs. Elton’s killer to justice, and she wasn’t about to ignore those instincts now. Even if there was no proof that Prudence had been murdered, which her husband had annoyingly pointed out, it didn’t mean something untoward hadn’t happened. There were simply too many strange aspects to the case and too many questions that left her vastly unsatisfied.
Father sighed again. “I suppose we cannot be neglectful of Mr. and Mrs. Cole since they have gone to so much trouble. One wishes, however, that they would not host so many parties. They seem to host a great many of them, indeed.” He smoothed the lap blanket over his knees. “I do hope Miss Bates will not wish to hold many parties at Hartfield. I must remember to speak with her about that.”
“I’m sure she won’t, Father,” said Emma. “Miss Bates is always very attentive to the needs of others. She’s so kind.”
That finally won a smile from her father. “She is. She also has a very keen awareness of drafts. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who could sense a draft more accurately than Miss Bates.”
“John is also very good at detecting drafts,” Isabella said. “He likes to tease me about my fear of drafts, but he’s really very attentive in that regard, especially with the children.”
Her father regarded her with alarm. “My dear, one must never tease about drafts. They can be fatal.”
Emma cut into the conversation before it could deteriorate any further. “We’ve arrived. And how lovely the house looks! So bright and cheery, don’t you think?”
“I hope it’s not too bright,” her father fretfully said. “Too much light can strain the eyes.”
She was thankfully spared a reply when a footman came to the carriage door and lowered the steps.
“Good evening, Mrs. Knightley,” he said as he helped her alight.
The young man was garbed in rather startling red and gold livery. It was a trifle much for Highbury, but that was the Coles’ style. They were good folk with a great deal of money and an equally great desire to spread it around as lavishly as possible. After Hartfield, they owned the largest house in Highbury, and Mrs. Cole was continually undertaking improvements, determined to keep up with the latest styles from London.
“Has Mr. Knightley and his party arrived yet?” Emma asked.
George had gone on ahead to escort Miss Bates and her mother to the party in the abbey’s carriage.
“They arrived a few minutes ago, ma’am.”
Another elaborately garbed footman, who took their wraps, ushered them to the drawing room.
“Mr. Woodhouse, Mrs. John Knightley, and Mrs. George Knight ley,” he announced with a full measure of solemnity.
“One would think we’re being introduced at court instead of in Mrs. Coles’ drawing room,” Emma whispered to her sister.
Isabella choked. “Hush, Emma.”
Mrs. Cole, resplendent in a purple satin gown and matching turban topped with an enormous purple feather, sailed over to greet them. Her husband followed dutifully at her heels.
“Mr. Woodhouse,” she enthused. “We are so honored to have you grace us with your presence. It is quite the occasion when Mr. Woodhouse comes to visit, and a real cause for celebration.”
Mr. Cole bowed so low that his shirt points climbed almost up around his ears. “Pleased as punch that you could make it, sir, along with your lovely daughters and Mr. Knightley.”
Father, ever the gentleman, replied with a sweet smile. “It was exceedingly kind of you to have us. Miss Bates was very much looking forward to it.”
“And here is the blushing bride herself,” Mr. Cole jovially announced as Miss Bates bustled up.
Goodness, Mr. Cole,” she exclaimed. “You are too kind, but I’m well past the age of blushing. Although I did use to blush a great deal when I was younger, much to my father’s consternation. Hetty, he used to say, you’re much too sensitive to the opinions of others. Seek only God’s good will, and then there will be need for your blushes.”
“Er …” said Mr. Cole, his eyes going wide.
“Mr. Woodhouse,” continued Miss Bates, “you must be perishing from the cold. Fortunately, Mrs. Cole has arranged everything beautifully by the fireplace.” She touched Isabella’s arm. “You, too, Mrs. Knightley. Do come get warm.”
As she led them off, the Coles effusively expressed their gratitude to Emma for her family’s presence—so much so that she began to feel embarrassed.
Thankfully, George broke off from his chat with a group of men and came to her rescue.
“Mr. Knightley, you must excuse me while I speak with Mrs. Cole about getting dinner on the table. I’m sure everyone’s famished.” Mr. Cole winked at Emma. “We have a splendid goose for dinner, come all the way from London. Only the best for Mr. Woodhouse, eh?”
He then took his wife by the arm and steered her toward the dining room.
“I do hope the goose came by chaise,” Emma commented. “He would be dreadfully uncomfortable in the mail coach.”
“The Coles are genuinely excited that your father is here tonight,” George said in a mildly admonishing tone. “He never goes anywhere but to Randalls or Donwell, so it’s quite the occasion for them.”
“It’s terribly sweet, but one would think the Prince Regent himself had come to sup. The footmen even have new livery.”
“I seem to recall that not very long ago you wouldn’t deign to cross the Coles’ threshold. And yet here you are.”
She wrinkled her nose. “How dreadful of you to remind me. I was a terrible snob, wasn’t I?”
“My dear, I would never say that.”
“Wretch. You are certainly thinking it.”
He laughed. “Come and greet some of the other guests.”
As was usual for the Coles, dinner was a more intimate affair held before more guests arrived later to make up the sets for dancing. The Westons were present, as was Mrs. Goddard, along with—surprisingly—Miss Nash, the head teacher at Mrs. Goddard’s school. Mr. Barlowe hovered nearby the ladies, pretending to be part of the conversation but looking his usual awkward self.
Most interesting from Emma’s point of view was the presence of Mr. Cox and William Cox, who were chatting with the Perrys. She had to admit that William looked perfectly respectable as he stood by his father, politely listening to Mrs. Perry.
“In case you’re wondering,” George murmured, “William has been conducting himself in an exemplary fashion.”
Emma darted him a look. “The evening is young, dearest.”
Not that she truly expected William to descend into his cups at such a small gathering. But it should be interesting to observe how he interacted with Miss Nash or some of the other young ladies later in the evening.
George refrained from making a reply as they joined Guy Plumtree and an older gentleman.
“My dear, I’m sure you remember Mr. Guy Plumtree from our party,” said George. “But let me introduce you to Squire Plumtree. Sir, my wife.”
Emma extended a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The squire bowed over her hand. “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Knightley. I’ve known Mr. Knightley for some years— we farming fellows generally talk, you know. I was most eager to make your acquaintance. My son told me all about your splendid kick-up at Donwell Abbey.”
Emma had to school her features, since that was not how she would have described that evening. But Squire Plumtree seemed a sincere man, if perhaps a slight rough about the edges. Neatly dressed, although not in the first style, he presented the very image of a respectable country squire.
Unlike his father, Guy looked extremely fashionable, sporting a finely tailored coat, a bright yellow vest, and an exceptionally complicated cravat. The outfit should have looked ridiculous in a place like Highbury, but the younger Plumtree carried it off with an easy confidence.
