Chapter 5 #3
Harry shrugged. “Maybe Mr. Knightley has the right of it, and it was half-empty when she brought it up.”
Mrs. Hodges glared at him. “It’s not something she would have done. Besides, Prudence had the migraine. I was going to send up headache powders when I got the chance.”
“Mrs. Hodges,” said George, “is it possible one of the staff brought up the decanter?”
She shook her head. “We were all well nigh rushed off our feet. Besides, I don’t think anyone else but me knew that Prudence was feeling poorly.”
Emma held up a hand. “I saw her as she was going up to her room. She did look quite distressed, but simply said her head was troubling her.”
“Then are we to assume,” said Dr. Hughes, “that only Mrs. Knightley and Mrs. Hodges knew the girl wasn’t feeling well?”
“Mrs. Weston, who was with me at the time, also did. Other than that, I don’t believe so,” Emma replied.
Harry suddenly coughed. When Emma glanced at him, the young man was staring down at his feet, looking vastly uncomfortable.
“Did you wish to say something else?” asked George.
The footman hesitated. “I don’t wish to get no one in trouble, sir.”
“My good fellow, the girl is dead,” exclaimed Dr. Hughes. “You can hardly get her in trouble.”
“And this is an official investigation,” the constable barked. “If you know anything, speak up now.”
The footman rolled his eyes in George’s direction, clearly alarmed.
“It’s all right, Harry,” George said. “Just tell us what you know.”
“Well,” he replied, drawing out the word. “I saw Prudence heading for the back stairs. I was bringing some dirty glasses to the kitchen when I spotted her.”
He fell silent, frowning down at his shoes again.
“And?” George prompted.
“Pru looked—I mean, Prudence looked mighty upset. I think she was crying. When I asked what was wrong, she just shook her head and ran up the stairs. I thought about going after her, but I had to get them glasses back to the kitchen.”
Mrs. Hodges made an exasperated noise. “Why didn’t you tell me the poor girl was crying?”
Harry’s expression was one of genuine dismay. “I guess I just forget, Mrs. Hodges. What with all the commotion from the party.”
“So, you didn’t bring her the decanter?” the constable asked.
Harry frowned. “Why would I do that?”
Dr. Hughes tapped the crystal topper of the decanter, his brow creased in thought. “So, it would seem that although Miss Parr claimed to simply have a headache, it is quite possible she was also distressed about some matter.” He looked to Mrs. Hodges. “And you have no idea what that might be?”
“I can only say she did look poorly.”
“Something set her off,” Harry said. “That was as plain as day, even to the likes of me,” he added with a self-deprecating grimace.
Again unbidden, an image of an inebriated and obnoxious William Cox popped into Emma’s brain. Could he have been importuning the poor girl after all? Was that why she was upset?
Still, Emma could hardly throw around such an accusation— even speculate on it—without some sort of evidence.
“So the girl was upset about something, filched the sherry decanter from the party, and then tried to drink her troubles away,” Constable Sharpe proclaimed in a self-satisfied voice.
Emma pointed out the obvious. “But no one saw her with the decanter. Certainly Harry did not, and he was the last person to see her go upstairs.”
“That’s right. She wasn’t carrying anything,” Harry confirmed.
The constable waved a dismissive hand. “No doubt she snuck back down and took it later.”
Now Emma tsked. “Without being seen? Doubtful.”
Dr. Hughes held up a hand. “We can only ascertain that by interviewing the other guests.”
That gave her pause. What if there had been someone else? What if it was a guest … a guest like William Cox, intending no good?
She glanced over at the bed. Slightly ruffled, the girl could perhaps have reclined on top of the coverlet. But the rest of the room showed no evidence of any sort of struggle or the presence of another person.
“As to how the decanter got up here,” said George, “that is a question yet to be answered. But I think we can assume that Prudence had at least one glass of sherry. The question then becomes, why did she open the window and what caused her to fall out?”
Dr. Hughes nodded. “I suggest we inspect the window for any clues as to how the accident occurred.”
“If it was an accident,” said Constable Sharpe.
Botheration.
Emma couldn’t help feeling annoyed that she was thinking along the same lines as the constable.
George ignored Sharpe and began to inspect the window. The constable followed closely behind, clearly intending to assert his authority.
Emma eyed the long but rather narrow casement window. “It’s not very wide, is it?”
“No,” her husband replied. “But it’s wide enough for a slender girl like Prudence to fall through.”
“True, but not easily, though.”
George suddenly leaned in, peering at a particular spot on the window frame. “Dr. Hughes, what do you make of this?”
The coroner stepped over to the window. He glowered at Sharpe, who already had his nose a mere inch from the window frame.
“Constable Sharpe,” Dr. Hughes huffily said. “You are blocking my way.”
Sharpe ignored him. “That looks mighty suspicious, Mr. Knightley. What do you make of it?”
George stepped aside, making room for the coroner. “I would prefer to hear the doctor’s opinion before stating my own.”
After examining the spot for several long seconds, Dr. Hughes turned, his expression solemn. “That is definitely blood on the window frame, as well as a small amount of hair.”
As Mrs. Hodges let out a quiet moan, Emma’s stomach pitched sideways. She had to suck in a breath to quell both the sensation and the memory of Prudence’s broken body on the terrace.
“Emma,” George said, “please hand me that lamp.”
She fetched the lamp from the dresser. He took it from her and brought it close to the window frame so that it could cast its light on the wood.
“Blond hair,” he noted.
“I take it Miss Parr had blond hair?” asked the constable.
“Yes,” George replied.
Dr. Hughes stepped away from the window. “Then the likely conclusion is that Miss Parr had a quantity of sherry, sufficient enough to make her woozy. She then opened the window, lost her balance, hit her head, and tragically fell four stories to the terrace.”
George tapped his chin. Emma recognized that gesture. It meant he wasn’t entirely convinced.
“She would have needed to be very off balance to fall out,” he said. “As my wife noted, the window is quite narrow.”
“It depends on how much she had to drink, Mr. Knightley,” the coroner replied. “It’s also possible that the wind gusted just as she opened it, pulling her even further off balance. The wind is quite strong tonight, and she was, as you say, a rather slight girl.”
“But why would she open the window in the first place?” asked Emma. “It’s freezing out.”
“When one drinks a substantial quantity of alcohol,” responded Dr. Hughes, “one can often feel overheated. The girl likely desired fresh air.”
Emma supposed that made sense. She rarely had more than a glass of wine herself or the very occasional brandy when life proved particularly challenging, so she couldn’t really speak to the doctor’s broad assertion about the effects of alcohol.
But she did live with a parent who insisted on roaring fires and overheated rooms, so she could understand the desire to open a window.
Still, there was no fireplace in this room, so one would think it rarely became overheated in the winter months.
“There’s another possible explanation,” said the constable.
The coroner peered over his spectacles, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “And what might that be?”
“She threw herself out the window.” Constable Sharpe paused for gruesome effect. “Deliberately.”
Silence reigned, except for a small, horrified gasp from Mrs. Hodges. George, who rarely allowed himself to be discomposed, stared at the constable in disbelief.
Emma felt more than disbelief. She felt the sudden urge to box Sharpe’s ears for floating such a hideous accusation.
Harry broke the silence first. “Our Prudence would never do such a thing! She was the goodest girl you’d ever want to meet.”
The constable sniffed, clearly unimpressed by the opinion of a mere servant. “She was a chambermaid, and those girls get up to all sorts of things. Everyone knows that.”
Mrs. Hodges’s scowl was ferocious. “Prudence was a sweet, biddable girl, and a churchgoing one at that. She would never commit such a heinous sin, and would never cause such a scandal for her father.”
George directed a coldly lethal gaze at the constable. “That is an exceedingly damning accusation to make, Constable. I would ask you to explain yourself.”
Literally damning in the case of suicide. If proven, Prudence would be denied a Christian burial. Such a death would be a scandal that followed her loved ones for the rest of their lives.
The constable gestured at Emma. “For one, I’m taking up on Mrs. Knightley’s point.”
“I never suggested anything of the sort!” she protested.
“You pointed out that the window is not that easy to tumble out of by accident. I agree. Therefore, it makes sense to consider the alternative, one that does fit the rest of the evidence.”
Emma had always known that the constable’s intellect failed to live up to his name, but this particular accusation was beyond offensive.
“What evidence?” she snapped. “You haven’t given us any.”
George’s eyebrows ticked up at her tone. Generally speaking, he did not approve of her tangling with Highbury’s law officers, but in this case she found herself unable to remain silent.
“Well, Constable Sharpe?” she demanded. “What evidence do you have to support that outrageous assertion?”
“Begging pardon, Mrs. Knightley, but I don’t answer to you,” Sharpe disdainfully replied. “Ordinary folk have no business mucking about in the law or offering opinions on criminal matters.”
Before she could open her mouth to retort, George intervened. “You may not answer to Mrs. Knightley, Constable Sharpe, but you do answer to me. And I expect you to answer my wife’s question. What credible evidence do you have to support a conclusion of suicide?”
Constable Sharpe seemed to struggle with himself but then grudgingly replied. “The girl was obviously upset about something. Mayhap she had a falling out with a sweetheart or was abandoned by him.”
George looked to Mrs. Hodges. “Did Prudence have a sweetheart?”
The housekeeper hesitated for a few moments before replying. “No. At least not to my knowledge.”
That caveat made Emma blink. Why did Mrs. Hodges seem reluctant to answer the question? Harry also looked uncomfortable, intently studying his shoes again.
“Constable Sharpe, young girls generally do not throw them selves out of windows because of quarrels with sweethearts,” opined Dr. Hughes. “We are not living in a Shakespearian tragedy, after all.”
“That’s all well and good,” Sharpe retorted. “I’m just saying we need to look at all the angles of the thing. The girl’s dead, and it’s my job to find out why.”
Dr. Hughes held up an imperious hand. “I have heard and seen enough. What is clear is that Miss Parr was either upset or unwell. That state led her to drink a portion of sherry, a drink to which she was unaccustomed. She then opened the window, likely wishing to get some fresh air. Most unfortunately, she lost her balance, hit her head on the side of the frame, and tumbled to her death. As Highbury’s coroner, that is my official determination. ”
George nodded. “I agree. Miss Parr’s death was a tragic accident. There is certainly no need to inflict harm on her reputation with needless speculation that fails to hold up under scrutiny.”
Under such withering fire, Constable Sharpe had no choice but to give in. He silently fumed for a few seconds, but then nodded.
“Then we are in agreement,” said George. “Dr. Hughes, I will be happy to meet to discuss any legal necessities in a day or two. Before that, I must be off to Leatherhead in the morning to break the news to Miss Parr’s family and help them make necessary arrangements.”
“A heavy burden indeed, Mr. Knightley,” replied the coroner. “Please convey my sympathies to Miss Parr’s family.”
George nodded. “Of course. Allow me to escort you and the constable downstairs.”
Muttering under his breath, Constable Sharpe stomped out of the room, forcing Harry to scuttle aside. With a cluck of disapproval, Dr. Hughes followed at a more sedate pace.
George took Emma’s hand. “Shall we, my dear?”
She shrugged. “I suppose there’s nothing more to be done up here, is there?”
“I’ll clean the window frame, Mr. Knightley,” Mrs. Hodges quietly said. “That way we can lock the door and leave the rest of the room undisturbed.”
George grimaced. “I’m sorry to leave you with such an unpleasant task.”
“It’s best if I do it, sir. I’ll make sure everything is rightly taken care of.”
“I’ll help, Mrs. Hodges,” Harry quietly said.
The sadness in their voices made Emma’s heart ache.
Still, she couldn’t help but notice the swift, almost furtive glance the servants exchanged. Emma had the distinct feeling that both were holding something back—presumably something about Prudence.
As George led her from the room, questions nipped at her heels. How did the decanter get up to the room? What was Prudence so upset about? Did she have a sweetheart, after all? Both Mrs. Hodges and Harry had evoked discomfort with that last question.
Although Emma was vastly relieved that Dr. Hughes had decisively ruled against suicide, and although it appeared that the fall had been an accident, there was nonetheless a mystery at the heart of the girl’s death.
Those who knew Prudence best—the loyal staff of Donwell Abbey—might well be the keepers of that mystery.