Murder at Donwell Abbey, page 28
“I was rather shocked at myself, but I truly felt for poor Mrs. Cox.”
“Please feel free to deliver set-downs to Anne on a regular basis. It might even improve her manners.”
Miss Bates barely seemed to hear her. “It’s all such a muddle, Mrs. Knightley. What are we to do now?”
“I must speak to my husband. He’ll devise an appropriate response.”
Once, that is, George got through scolding her for haring off on her own yet again.
CHAPTER 23
Emma found herself awake as dawn slipped past the draperies. As she lay in bed, she reflected on how quickly one could become accustomed to a bedmate after a lifetime of sleeping alone, especially when that person was the beloved of one’s heart.
Waking without George was a particularly dreary way to start the day.
Yesterday, after hearing her report about William Cox, her husband had decided to leave for London that very afternoon. Matters in Highbury were coming to a head, and he wished to discuss these latest developments with John, along with the possibility of hiring a Bow Street Runner to help investigate the case and clear Larkins’s good name.
He would also transmit the new information to Mr. Clarke. Thankfully, George had agreed to keep William’s name out of it, but he acknowledged that the revenue agent’s primary focus was on catching smugglers, not murderers. Although identifying the smugglers could only help Larkins’s cause, there was still the matter of Prudence’s bloody mobcap and other incriminating evidence. If Mr. Clarke failed to run the smugglers to ground before the murder trial, Larkins would almost certainly go to the gallows.
Time was racing away from them.
During their discussion, George had delivered an expected and rather pithy lecture on the perils of amateurs investigating murder. Though she’d pointed out that, strictly speaking, she’d been investigating smuggling not murder, George had been unimpressed by her logic and had said so in equally pithy terms. Still, he’d taken the information to heart—as she’d known he would—and had acted upon it by planning his departure for London.
Of course, his excellent decision-making abilities meant that Emma found herself standing morosely under Hartfield’s portico a short time later as she watched her husband’s carriage roll down the drive. Thankfully, they’d parted on mostly excellent terms. George had pulled her into his arms for a lingering kiss and embrace, but had rather ruined the moment by admonishing her to stay out of trouble until his return. Emma had considered pointing out that trouble seemed to find her rather than the other way around, but had refrained in the interests of domestic harmony.
After staring up at the canopy of her bed for twenty minutes, Emma was still debating whether to climb out from under her warm blankets when the maid entered the room to light the fire. She rose and then washed, shivering slightly in the morning chill, and donned her warmest kerseymere gown. Father wouldn’t be down for at least another hour, so she would have time to think about what to do while she waited for news from George. For one thing, she should probably visit Donwell this afternoon to check on the servants. With George now gone for at least three days, Mrs. Hodges and company were more in need of support and guidance than ever.
After coming downstairs, she encountered Simon on her way to the breakfast parlor.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said. “Would you prefer coffee this morning? I just brought tea in for Mr. Woodhouse.”
Emma couldn’t hide her surprise. “My father is up already?”
“Yes, he rang for me almost an hour ago,” replied Simon in a resigned tone.
As one of Hartfield’s longest-serving staff and Father’s de facto valet, Simon knew the old dear almost as well as she did.
She sighed. “He’s fretting about the smuggling, isn’t he?”
“A bit, ma’am.”
“I’ll have coffee, then.” Emma had a feeling that tea wouldn’t be a strong enough brace for the day ahead.
“Right away, Mrs. Knightley.”
She pinned a bright smile on her face as she entered the breakfast parlor. “Good morning, dearest. You’re up very early.”
Her father, who’d been gloomily perusing a letter, glanced up. “I feel very discomposed, my dear. I cannot stop thinking both about those dreadful smugglers and poor Larkins sitting in that damp prison. He’s bound to come down with a dreadful chill, and you know how dangerous they can be if left untreated.”
“Larkins is very robust, and we’ve made sure he has everything he needs to stay healthy. Don’t forget that George has gone to London especially to procure help for Larkins. He and John will manage it, I promise.”
He looked even more ruffled. “But, Emma, London is very damp at this time of year, and George is not used to London weather. I do hope he remembered to pack his flannel scarf and waistcoat.”
George had never worn a flannel waistcoat in his life, and Emma suspected he never would.
“Is that a letter from Isabella?” she asked in an attempt to divert his fretting thoughts. “What does she have to say?”
“She never complains, as you know, but I surmise that she finds London quite dreary at the moment, especially with John working so much.” He sighed. “I cannot help thinking that she and the children would be better off staying with us right now. City air is so injurious to one’s health in the winter.”
Emma studied his doleful expression. “Father, would you like to write to Isabella and ask her to come back to Hartfield with the children? I should certainly be glad for their company.”
He perked up. “Do you think she would do that?” Then he hesitated. “But what of the smugglers? Is it safe? We cannot put them in danger, Emma, especially not the children.”
She weighed the question. True, the smugglers had cut across Donwell’s gardens, but Mr. Clarke was of the opinion that it had been a singular occurrence. There was also the fact that William Cox had precipitously quit the gang almost three months ago and had remained entirely unmolested by them. And George had spent the past several nights at Donwell, where all had been as peaceful as one could hope. It seemed clear that whoever killed Prudence was not from Highbury any more than the smugglers were.
While someone had obviously framed Larkins and that was deeply concerning, Emma had no doubt that the village, Hartfield, and Donwell were all safe from harm.
Besides, if Isabella returned to Hartfield it would allow Emma to move back to Donwell. There was much work yet to be done to bring the old pile up to snuff before she and George made their permanent move. If George wished her to stay out of trouble, the best way to do that was for her to focus on preparing for their new life as master and mistress of Donwell Abbey.
Before Emma could reply, Simon entered with the coffee service. A moment later, a knock echoed down the hall from the front of the house.
Emma frowned. “Goodness, who could be calling so early?” “Perhaps it’s Perry,” her father said. “Simon, please show him in here. I’m sure he’ll be happy for a cup of tea.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I’m surprised Mr. Perry would call so early,” said Emma. “He doesn’t usually do so.”
“True, but he knows that I’ve been most—”
The door opened and Miss Bates hurried in, looking flustered.
“My dear Miss Bates, is something wrong?” Father exclaimed “Is Mrs. Bates unwell?”
Miss Bates flashed an apologetic smile. “Dear me, no. We are both perfectly well. Forgive me for giving you a fright. I heard the most disturbing news just now, and I knew Mrs. Knightley would wish to know about it immediately.”
Emma went to her. “Of course, but first you must take off your bonnet and pelisse and have a cup of tea.”
Though Miss Bates protested that she was fine, Emma handed her outerwear to Simon, got her seated, and poured her a cup.
“Now,” Emma said, resuming her own place. “What is this dreadful thing that sent you racing to us so early?”
“I hope this has nothing to do with those wretched smugglers,” Father said. “I do not approve of all this smuggling, Emma. These villains are worse than the poultry thief.”
Emma and Miss Bates exchanged a concerned look. In Father’s world, there was little worse than the dreaded poultry thief.
“I don’t imagine anyone approves of them, Father,” Emma replied.
“I do hate to be the bearer … oh, are those Serle’s vanilla scones?” asked Miss Bates as Simon brought the platter to the table. “Yes, I’d love a scone, Simon. And strawberry jam—such a treat! I vow, Serle makes the best strawberry jam in all of Highbury.”
Emma resisted the urge to grind her molars. “Miss Bates, what is this news you so urgently needed to share?”
“Dear me, I beg your pardon.” She put down her knife. “Poor Mr. Clarke was found unconscious in the churchyard this morning, lying behind one of the gravestones. Mr. Barlowe found him there. He’d been severely beaten. Mr. Clarke, that is, not Mr. Barlowe. Apparently, he’d been attacked some time in the night and left for dead. If Mr. Barlowe hadn’t had business in the church first thing, poor Mr. Clarke might have frozen to death.”
Emma stared at her, aghast at the news. So much for Highbury being perfectly safe.
Father threw down his napkin. “Emma, this is unacceptable! I do not say I approve of Mr. Clarke, but one should be able to visit the churchyard without being set upon by villains. You must write George immediately and tell him to come home.”
“Yes, dear,” she replied, her attention still on Miss Bates. “Where is Mr. Clarke now? Is he conscious?”
“Yes, he was taken to the Crown Inn. Dr. Hughes was called immediately and is still there with him.”
“How did you hear of this?”
“Patty got up early to go to the bakery and she ran into one of the grooms from the Crown. He told her everything.”
“Do you know anything about the extent of his injuries?”
“Only what I’ve told you. Dr. Hughes and Mr. Barlowe are still with him. Oh, and Constable Sharpe was there at the Crown, too.”
Father let out a dismissive huff. “Mr. Clarke would be better served if Perry were to see to him. Emma, you must send a note to Perry and ask him to attend to Mr. Clarke.”
“Yes, dear,” Emma automatically replied. “Did the smugglers attack him?”
Miss Bates shook her head. “Constable Sharpe apparently told Mrs. Stokes that it was a robbery. Mr. Clarke’s clothing was … was discomposed, and his watch and fob were taken.”
“Thieves and smugglers,” Father moaned. “What is to become of us? We shall all be killed in our beds!”
“We’re perfectly safe here at Hartfield, Father,” Emma said in soothing tones. “And I strongly suspect that this supposed thief was actually one of the smugglers.”
Most likely he made the attack on Mr. Clarke appear to be a robbery. It strained credulity to think otherwise. It also suggested that the prevention officer had been making progress— and that Mr. Clarke’s apparent headway had caused someone to become very nervous.
“I wondered if that was the case,” confessed Miss Bates. “To have both robbers and smugglers in Highbury would be too dreadful.”
“And extremely coincidental,” Emma replied. “I can only wonder what Mr. Clarke was doing in the churchyard in the middle of the night?”
Miss Bates held up a hand. “I think I know. He was probably investigating the strange lights.”
Emma frowned. “What strange lights?”
“In the bell tower, after midnight. There was a report of strange lights up there.” Miss Bates twirled a hand. “Mr. Clarke has been staying at the Crown Inn when in Highbury, according to the groom. The poor man must have seen them and gone out to investigate.”
“I didn’t know he was back in Highbury,” Emma replied, musing on the information.
As she now knew, churches were often used as depots for contraband goods. And one certainly had to note that Mr. Barlowe had been acting rather oddly ever since Prudence’s murder. Did he know something about the smuggling gang, after all, and had been frightened into silence?
“Did anyone else see those lights?” Emma asked.
Miss Bates nodded. “Apparently Mr. Perry did.”
Father flapped his napkin. “Perry should not be out so late, especially with such dangerous villains roaming about.”
“Miss Bates, how do you know Mr. Perry saw the lights?” asked Emma.
“After Patty ran back and told us what had happened, I set off immediately for Hartfield. On the way, I ran into Mrs. Cole.” She pulled a sympathetic grimace. “Mr. Cole was feeling poorly last night, so they were forced to call for Mr. Perry. Dyspepsia, you know. Mrs. Cole says that Mr. Cole’s business gives him a nervous stomach.”
Father huffed. “Nonsense. Mr. Cole eats too much cake and too many rich foods. I’ve told Perry as such, and he agrees with me.”
Emma tried to stay on point. “So Mr. Perry saw those lights on the way to see Mr. Cole?”
Miss Bates nodded. “He mentioned it specifically to Mrs. Cole when he arrived, but was then taken up with treating Mr. Cole. And Mrs. Cole forgot all about it until this morning. But she told me that she was going to speak to Constable Sharpe as soon as she saw Mrs. Ford about procuring flannel waistcoats for her husband—to help with his dyspepsia.”
“Flannel waistcoats will do nothing to help dyspepsia unless Mr. Cole leaves off eating cake,” Father severely noted.
Emma ignored her father as she focused on what to do. Speaking to Constable Sharpe or Dr. Hughes was clearly out the question. They would simply dismiss her. But something was clearly going on at the church, something that likely led to the beating of Mr. Clarke. Who better a person to speak to, then, than Mr. Barlowe?
First, she needed to get into that bell tower.
She stood. “Father, it might be best if I go into Highbury and check on poor Mr. Clarke. Mrs. Stokes is always so busy, and who knows if she has the proper medicinal potions on hand at the inn. She might need help.”
Her father’s eyes popped wide with alarm. “Emma, you must not leave the house! Not with villains running about the village.”
“I’m sure there’s no danger. After all, Mrs. Cole was out and about, and Miss Bates safely came to Hartfield.”
“Miss Bates should also remain here,” he stubbornly replied.
The spinster pressed a feeling hand to her chest. “Dear Mr. Woodhouse, always so concerned for everyone’s care. But I believe Mrs. Knightley is correct. There were quite a few people on the street, and all the shops were opening up. I even saw Mrs. Goddard and some of her pupils out for a brisk morning walk. You know she would never put her girls at risk.”
“And you did say we should have Mr. Perry visit poor Mr. Clarke,” Emma swiftly added. “I can stop by and ask him to do that.”
Father wavered. “Perhaps if you take one of the footmen with you?”
“What a good suggestion,” Emma enthused.
And a suggestion it would remain, since she had no intention of having a footman trailing along while she snuck into the church.
Miss Bates also came to her feet. “I’ll walk back with you, Mrs. Knightley. I should like to see how Mr. Clarke is, too.”
Drat.
She didn’t need Miss Bates as a witness, either. It seemed, however, that she might have little choice.
As Hartfield’s front door closed behind them, Miss Bates touched Emma’s arm.
“You’re not really going to call on Mr. Perry, are you? You’re going to the church to investigate what happened to Mr. Clarke.”
Startled, Emma could only stare at her. “How did you guess?”
“So, you are going to investigate.”
Miss Bates looked so pleased with herself that Emma didn’t have the heart to contradict her.
“You mustn’t tell Father,” she warned. “He’d have a conniption.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. The dear man’s peace is already cut up as it is. The less he thinks about these dreadful smugglers, the better. I only wonder what we can do about it.”
Emma slowed as they approached the turning into Vicarage Lane. “We could try to get to the bottom of it.”
Miss Bates matched her pace. “I’m not sure what you mean, Mrs. Knightley. Why else would Mr. Clarke be in the churchyard at night but for smugglers? They must have been the source of those strange lights—unless it was the ghost. Although it doesn’t seem likely, I suppose one must take the ghost into consideration.”
“What ghost? I’ve not heard any reports of ghosts in the church.”
Generally speaking, Emma didn’t believe in ghosts. Highbury had always been dreadfully dull in that respect, thank goodness, with nary a whisper of some idiotic spirit making a nuisance of itself.
Miss Bates fluttered a hand. “Some in the village still think Mrs. Elton’s ghost is haunting the church. Although why her ghost would be up in the bell tower is beyond me. I’m quite sure she never set foot up there.”
Emma sighed. “I’d forgotten about that.”
After Mrs. Elton’s murder, some locals were indeed convinced that her spirit was haunting Highbury’s church. Emma had been forced to deliver stern admonitions to a number of young people regarding the foolishness of such irrational and irreligious beliefs.
“Mrs. Cole said Mr. Gilbert also saw the lights one night, some weeks ago,” added Miss Bates. “She thought nothing of it at the time, but after last night …”
Emma scoffed. “Did Mrs. Cole think that Mrs. Elton’s spirit attacked Mr. Clarke?”
Miss Bates waved to a few children as they ran past on their way to the village school. “Such dear little children. What did you say, Mrs. Knightley? Oh, the ghost. I asked Mrs. Cole why she thought it might be Mrs. Elton’s ghost. She said that perhaps Mrs. Elton had a general opposition to paying customs fees and would therefore object to having a prevention officer on church grounds.”
Emma came to a dead halt. “Did she truly say that?”
Miss Bates, who’d walked on a few steps, turned back to address her. “I’m afraid so.” Then she sighed. “Poor Mrs. Elton. I’m very sure she would be happy to pay her customs fees now, if she were only alive.”
