Chapter 5 #2
“He is,” said Mrs. Hodges. “The carriage is out front, so whenever Mr. Woodhouse is ready.”
“Emma, we must not keep the horses standing about,” her father exclaimed with alarm. “It is very bad for them.”
“The horses will be fine, dear.” She glanced at her husband. “George, is there anything you need?”
He shook his head. “I’m about to take Dr. Hughes and the constable up to servants’ quarters.”
“Very well. Once Father and Miss Bates are safely off, I’ll join you upstairs.”
Constable Sharpe scowled at her, no doubt wishing her to perdition, but Emma ignored him. After all, Donwell was her house as well, and she had been at the scene of the accident immediately after its occurrence.
Keeping up a soothing patter of reassurance, Emma bustled her father and Miss Bates from the room.
She managed to get them to the great hall and garbed in coats, hats, shawls, and gloves without too much fuss.
Simon, Hartfield’s senior footman, had accompanied James back to Donwell and solicitously handed the pair into the carriage.
After Emma gave him a few additional instructions, they were finally off.
She stood outside for a few moments, watching the carriage lights fade into the night. The chilly air was invigorating and a bracing antidote to her growing fatigue.
“Thank you, Donny,” she said to the stable boy, serving as doorman. “I’m sorry you’ve been kept up so late. I know it’s been a difficult evening.”
Servants were thin on the ground at the moment. They’d all been rushing to and fro, dealing with both Prudence’s death and the aftermath of the party.
The lad grimaced. “Poor Miss Prudence was a regular goer. Right bobbish she was, with everyone. Can’t believe she’s really gone.”
Emma was no expert in cant, but the lad’s meaning was clear. Everyone in the household had nothing but warm feelings for Prudence.
“Yes, it’s dreadful.” She turned back to the house. “Don’t stay up too much longer, Donny. It’s very late.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Emma made her way through the hall to the stairs off the long gallery.
She stopped for a moment, gathering her composure and her wits.
Although part of her longed for answers, another part recoiled at what must happen next.
George, Constable Sharpe, and Dr. Hughes would be searching Prudence’s room, rummaging through her life for clues that might illuminate her death.
It was a dreadful invasion of the poor girl’s privacy, and who knew what secrets might be revealed. Nonetheless, it was unavoidable.
She put a hand on the banister and started to climb.
By the time Emma made it to the top floor of the abbey, she was regretting the second piece of Savoy cake she’d had after supper. The climb also gave her a renewed sympathy for the lives of the servants who had to continually traverse long hallways and numerous stairs in the course of their duties.
At the end of the corridor, Harry stood outside the open door of Prudence’s room.
The footman respectfully bobbed his head. “Mrs. Knightley.”
“How are you, Harry? We’ve given you an unpleasant task, standing up here all this time.”
“I’m fine, ma’am. It’s just …” He pressed his lips together, as if having difficulty holding his emotions in check.
“I’m sure you were all very fond of Prudence.”
“She was like a sunbeam, she was,” he quietly replied. “A very kind and good person to have about the place.”
“So I understand.”
She stood there feeling awkward, while Harry stared at her with a hangdog expression. But since there was nothing more to be said, she gave him a nod and proceeded inside.
The space was tucked up under a sharply pitched roof, forcing the men in the room to cluster about a round table in the center.
All the basic necessaries were present, with some additional comforts.
Aside from the bed and table, there were two cane-backed chairs with cushioned seats, a small chest of drawers holding a pitcher and washbasin, a drying rack tucked into the corner, and what looked like new Dutch matting covering the floor.
The bed was dressed with a pristinely white coverlet and thick wool blanket, and a nice set of dimity curtains framed the casement window.
The life of a servant, never an easy one, was sometimes nothing less than miserable if a miserly master held the reins.
Such was not the case with George. While certainly not given to extravagance, her husband would always be attentive to the comfort of others, including servants who were so often invisible to those they served.
Right now, the room was freezing. The casement window was still open, and the pretty cotton curtains whipped to and fro in a stiff breeze.
George glanced over. “Ah, there you are. I’m sorry the room is so cold. We should be able to close the window soon.”
“Only after we finish with our investigations, sir,” Constable Sharpe admonished. “You know better than anyone that we can’t jump to conclusions without all the facts.”
Given some of the foolish conclusions the constable had jumped to only six months ago, that was quite an outrageous assertion.
Dr. Hughes blessed her with a patronizing smile. “My dear Mrs. Knightley, there’s really no need for you to be here. This entire evening has been an affront to your delicate sensibilities. You’ve undergone a great shock and should be resting.”
Pulling her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, Emma edged her way over to George.
She had no intention of leaving and every intention of supporting her husband.
He’d adopted his usual calm demeanor, but she sensed the strain on him.
As both master of Donwell and the local magistrate, he was in a difficult position.
Constable Sharpe might again try to take advantage of that, and she had no intention of allowing such impertinence.
“Thank you for your consideration, Dr. Hughes. But as mistress of Donwell, I feel it only right to be here to support my husband and the servants, especially Mrs. Hodges.”
Dr. Hughes nodded a grudging acquiescence. “Your diligence does your credit, ma’am. But if at any time you feel the need to leave, please don’t hesitate to do so. A situation such as this can be most distressing.”
“Especially for poor Miss Parr,” she politely replied.
He looked disconcerted by her response but carried on.
“Mr. Knightley, it would seem that you were correct in drawing your conclusion about the odor of spirits on Miss Parr’s body.
The presence of the decanter and glass would confirm that the deceased was imbibing spirits before her unfortunate fall. ”
For the first time since entering the room, Emma focused on the small table. It held a half-empty decanter and a glass—and not just any old decanter and glass, but ones from a set of Donwell’s best crystal. It was jarring to see them there, and disturbing to speculate why they were.
“George,” she said, “those were part of the crystal service in the drawing room for the party. I cannot imagine why they’re here.”
“I should think it obvious, ma’am,” said Constable Sharpe. “Your girl filched them. From the looks of it, she took a hefty dose of the stuff, too.”
George had no objection to his employees having a pint of ale or a glass of wine with their dinner, but he would frown on the servants keeping quantities of alcohol in their quarters.
Mrs. Hodges had a bottle of sherry in her rooms, but she was the most senior of the household staff and had certain privileges.
“We cannot be sure of that,” said George. “It’s entirely possible that the decanter was almost half-empty when it was brought up here. Also, please note that she apparently spilled a quantity on her clothing.”
“Mayhap because she was tipsy and had no control over herself?” the constable responded. “And who else would bring the decanter up here? The evidence suggests it was the girl herself.”
From everything Emma knew about Prudence, Sharpe’s conclusions simply didn’t square.
“Perhaps someone else brought up the decanter and glass,” she suggested. “Prudence wasn’t feeling well, and one of the other servants might have thought she needed a restorative.”
George waggled a hand. “I can certainly understand bringing her a small glass of wine, but to bring one of the good decanters up from the drawing room during a party? That makes no sense.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t,” she replied with a sigh. “What sort of drink is it?”
“Sherry,” her husband replied.
Emma glanced at Harry, standing in the door. “Harry, do you know if Prudence drank sherry?”
He opened his mouth to reply but was forestalled by the appearance of Mrs. Hodges.
“I can answer that question.” The housekeeper darted an irritated glance at the footman. “Harry, you’re blocking the doorway.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Hodges,” he replied with a grimace. “Sometimes I forget how big I am.”
As he stepped aside, the housekeeper muttered something that sounded suspiciously like great oaf.
“Prudence did not drink sherry,” said Mrs. Hodges. “She was never one for spirits.”
The constable scoffed. “The presence of a half-empty decanter would suggest otherwise. As would the smell of said spirits on her body.”
Mrs. Hodges darted a questioning glance at Emma. There was no point in denying Sharpe’s statement, so she simply nodded in reply.
The housekeeper was clearly distressed by that information. “I can only say that Prudence was not fond of strong drink, nor would she take one of the good decanters, not during a party or at any other time.”
“But if she wasn’t feeling well,” Harry suddenly put in, “mayhap she thought a nice glass of sherry would help her feel better. My ma always gave us sherry or port whenever we had the toothache, when we was little.”
No one seemed to know quite how to respond to that rather startling and uncalled for admission.
“But that is more than one glass,” Dr. Hughes finally observed.