Chapter 13 #2
Emma waggled a hand. “I’ve never heard of ghosts in the abbey, but perhaps we might get lucky.”
“That doesn’t sound very lucky to me,” Harriet said, trying not to laugh. “May I come along?”
Emma hesitated. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. It’s bound to be too cold and damp for you.”
“Cold and damp won’t bother me. I’m warm all the time. Because of … you know.” Harriet pointed to her stomach. “Besides, the abbey is such a beautiful building. I should like to see a different part of it.”
When Emma eyed her askance, Harriet gave her a pleading look. “Robert’s mother and sisters hardly let me do anything anymore. They want me to sit and be quiet all the time. I should love to do something different, for once.”
She sometimes forgot that Harriet was still quite young and energetic. Being treated like a delicate piece of porcelain by her anxious in-laws was clearly wearing on her.
“As long as you promise to let me know the moment you get cold or uncomfortable.” She glanced at Henry. “That goes for you, too.”
“I promise,” the two replied in tandem.
“All right, then. Henry, fetch your warmest coat and gloves while Mrs. Martin and I get on our pelisses.”
It took but a few minutes to get ready, and then Emma led her little band of assistants to the kitchen.
Mrs. Hodges poked her head out from the pantry. “Is there anything you’re needing, Mrs. Knightley?”
“We’re going down to examine the cellars. Henry and Mrs. Martin have volunteered to assist me.”
The housekeeper nodded. “I’ll have a fresh pot of tea waiting for you when you’re finished, but I’d advise not staying too long in that cold and damp.”
Once through the door to the stable yard, Emma turned right toward the small cellar beneath the kitchen that was currently in use as cold storage. She knew that was in prime shape, so she led them farther along the back of the house toward one of the older wings.
“I see it,” said Henry, running ahead to stone steps that lead down to a door well below grade. From the looks of it, this cellar was more akin to an undercroft, running deep beneath the abbey.
Her nephew hurried down the steps and disappeared from view. When a loud voice bellowed out from behind them, Emma almost jumped out of her skin.
“Hold up, Mrs. Knightley! Them steps aren’t safe.”
She spun about to see Harry striding toward them, a frown marking his normally placid features.
“Harry, you gave me quite the fright,” she exclaimed.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am. I just don’t want Master Henry hurting himself. Them steps are terrible crumbly. I’ve been telling Mr. Larkins they need to be fixed, but I guess he’s not gotten around to it yet.”
Those were quite a lot of words from Harry. And it was not the usual purview of a footman to worry about things such as cellars—especially a footman like Harry.
Her nephew’s head popped up at the top of the stairs. “The steps are a little crumbly, Auntie Emma, but I think it’s fine.”
While it was true that edges of the stone steps were worn down and cracked, they looked solid enough. Besides, George would never have agreed to her going down to the cellars if it weren’t safe.
“I agree, Henry.” She glanced at their footman. “But I take your point. I’ll be sure to mention the steps to Mr. Larkins.”
Harriet pointed to the bottom of the stairs. “The door seems sturdy, and the lock looks quite new. I thought you said this cellar hadn’t been in use.”
Emma frowned. “It hasn’t, as far as I know.”
“Mr. Larkins had the locksmith out last summer to change all the locks on the outside buildings and entrances,” said Harry.
“Why is that?”
He shrugged. “I think it might have had something to do with the poultry thief.”
Highbury had suffered a rash of thefts by a poultry thief, both last summer and the one before. The thief had never been caught, much to the consternation of the good citizens of Highbury.
“I suppose that makes sense,” Emma replied, “though we’re hardly keeping chickens down there.”
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Larkins, ma’am.” Harry gave her a sheepish smile. “He generally don’t tell me what’s going on around the place.”
“I suppose we’ll need a key, then. Harry, could you find Mr. Larkins and fetch it for me?”
“I think he’s gone off to the village, ma’am. Not sure when he’ll be back.”
“Oh, bother. Then I suppose—”
“It’s open,” Henry said.
He’d scampered back down and was now standing in the door. Emma hadn’t heard a thing. Given the age of the oak door, she could only surmise that the hardware had been cleaned and oiled, as well.
“Excellent.” She snapped her fingers. “We need light. Harry, please run back to the kitchen and fetch a lantern.”
The footman scrunched up his face. “Are you sure you want to go down there, missus? It’s bound to be dirty as anything. You won’t want to be mucking up your shoes.”
“I’m wearing my half-boots,” said Harriet. “I wear them around the farm all the time.”
“Harry, fetch the lamp now,” Emma said in a firm voice.
With a sigh, he trudged off toward the kitchen with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
Harriet peered after him. “Harry makes for a rather odd footman. Robert says he’s quite lazy.”
“An opinion shared by more than one at Donwell. He does try his best, though. I think George feels sorry for him, since he’s not very bright.”
“Poor man. One can’t blame him for that.”
“Indeed.”
Emma lifted her skirts and made her way down to join her nephew. “See anything interesting, Henry?”
“Just some of the floor. But the smell isn’t too bad.”
She took a cautious sniff and was pleasantly surprised. There was a musty odor, which wasn’t surprising, but it could have been worse.
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.