Chapter 18
Emma studied her breakfast plate with a jaundiced eye.
For her to lose her appetite was rare, but yesterday’s events had done the trick.
Mrs. Cole, upon hearing that smugglers might be operating in the vicinity, had taken her daughters and fled as if a bloodthirsty band of freetraders was hot on their heels.
Isabella had reacted in equally an overdone fashion, moaning that Highbury had become infested with criminals and vowing to return to London immediately.
Only when an exasperated George had pointed out that the day was too far advanced for travel had Isabella regained a measure of sense.
George walked into the dining room. He’d been up exceedingly early, busy with the repercussions of yesterday’s events.
He dropped a kiss on her head. “Good morning, my Emma.”
“Good morning, dearest. Have you had breakfast, or have you been too busy searching for smugglers since dawn?”
“I confess I have yet to eat.”
Shaking her head at the foolishness of husbands, Emma rose and went to the sideboard. She piled ham, coddled eggs, and a cheddar scone on a plate and took it to him.
“I imagine you think I’ll eat all of this,” he mildly commented.
“I know that otherwise you’ll spend the rest of the day running about without a thing to eat. So, yes.”
“You know me too well.”
“The study of Mr. Knightley has been a favorite subject of mine since I was a little girl.”
He scoffed before taking up his fork.
Emma let him eat for several minutes as she drank her coffee and pretended that everything was just fine. After a few minutes, he shot her a wry glance.
“You can speak to me, my dear. I’m capable of doing two things at once.”
“Of course, but I didn’t wish to disturb you.”
“You never could, anyway. To your earlier point, I have been walking the grounds with Larkins. As he noted yesterday, there are suspicious tracks that cut across the back gardens. It’s hard to ascertain where they originate, unfortunately, because others cross through the gardens on a regular basis, as you know, including the staff and people coming up from Abbey Mill Farm. ”
“Has Larkins noticed any unusual activity? He’s best placed to do so, given that he’s all over the estate on a daily basis.”
George shook his head. “No, and he wouldn’t see anything after he retreats to his cottage at night. He has no view of the gardens from there and can see the Langham Path only where it intersects Donwell Road.”
Emma grimaced. “What do you intend to do?”
“I’ve already dispatched a message to the revenue agent in Leatherhead to apprise him of yesterday’s events. I have no doubt Mr. Clarke will wish to investigate.”
“Splendid,” she sardonically replied. “Now we’ll have a revenue agent skulking about the village. I’m sure everyone will be thrilled.”
“Mr. Clarke will simply conduct his investigation and present the results to me and to his superiors. No one in Highbury has anything to fear.”
“Nevertheless, Father will be in a complete flap about this. I hope you realize that once Isabella leaves for London, I’ll need to return to Hartfield.”
“I know. But given the circumstances, I’ll have to remain at Donwell for the time being.”
Since their marriage, they’d not spent even a single night apart. Still, there was no point in making a fuss over it. “Gracious me, it would seem Highbury is turning into a hotbed of criminality, first with murders and now with smuggling.”
“Murders?” George looked puzzled for a moment but then sighed. “Surely you’re not suggesting that smugglers had anything to do with Prudence’s death?”
Emma wavered but then decided to voice her concerns, no matter how improbable. “I know it’s an odd connection to make, yet the explanation surrounding her death has always struck me as improbable. What if Prudence had discovered something bad but didn’t know what to do about it?”
“Is there any indication of that? From one of the other servants perhaps?”
“Well … no.”
“Then it serves little purpose to try to connect what are very likely separate events when one lacks evidence.”
She was debating whether to argue the point when Henry burst into the room. His coat was open and his hat askew.
“Henry, what’s wrong?” she exclaimed, taking in his panicked expression.
George rose and went to the boy. “Sit, Henry. Catch your breath.”
“No … no time,” Henry stuttered. “You have to come right now, Uncle George!”
“Come where?”
“To Mr. Larkins’s cottage. Constable Sharpe is trying to arrest him!”
“I walked over from Hartfield to say good bye to Mr. Larkins,” Henry explained as the three of them hurried down the drive to the estate steward’s cottage. “He’s been ever so nice, and I wanted to thank him.”
“Was Constable Sharpe already at the cottage when you arrived?” asked Emma.
“No. Mr. Larkins was making me a cup of tea when the constable banged on the door. He yelled at Mr. Larkins and told him to surrender himself to the law.”
“The nerve of the man,” Emma huffed. “With you right in the room, too?”
“Mr. Larkins went outside, but I still heard everything. Constable Sharpe said he’d come to search the cottage, and then they got in a big fight. So I slipped by them and ran for you.”
George dropped a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “That was very quick thinking, Henry.”
“I didn’t know what else to d-do.”
Emma’s heart twisted at the quaver in the boy’s voice. She’d like nothing better than to box Sharpe’s ears for his outrageous behavior. And she just might, yet.
“George, how could Sharpe not tell you of this?” she asked.
Her husband looked grim. “Believe me, I will have more than a few things to say to the constable.”
They rounded the curve in the drive to the distressing sight of Larkins standing athwart his doorway, fists raised as if ready to pummel Sharpe. In a pugnacious stance, Sharpe barked back, ordering Larkins to step aside.
Just as dismaying, the scene had attracted an audience. Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Otway were avidly watching from a short distance, taking in every nasty detail.
“This is very bad,” Emma said as they hastened forward. “Mr. Otway and Mr. Gilbert will tell everyone in Highbury about this.”
“Perhaps you can send them on their way,” said George, “while I try to calm down the combatants. Take Henry with you.”
“But I want to help Mr. Larkins,” Henry protested.
“The best way to help is to help send those gentlemen over there on their way.”
George lengthened his stride and headed for the brangling men. Emma hastened to intercept the onlookers, who were now creeping forward, obviously the better to hear what Mr. Knightley had to say.
She blocked their path. “Mr. Otway and Mr. Gilbert, I see. How are you?”
“Er …” replied Mr. Gilbert, clearly thrown by her bland comment.
“Have you met my nephew?” She tugged Henry forward. “He’s my sister’s eldest son, Henry. Dear, please make your bow to Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Otway.”
Smart lad that he was, Henry realized she wished to create a distraction from the ugly scene going on behind them.
He gave the two men a courteous bow. “Good morning, Mr. Otway, Mr. Gilbert. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The men exchanged puzzled glances. Mr. Otway managed to pull himself together first.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Master Henry,” he replied. “I hope you’ve been enjoying your stay in Highbury.”
Then he winced, as if realizing how silly that might sound. Henry, however, responded with remarkable aplomb.
“Thank you, sir. I have. We had a splendid skating party on the pond yesterday. I very much enjoyed it.”
Oh dear.
Mr. Gilbert leapt into that unfortunate breach. “Speaking of yesterday, Mrs. Knightley, I understand that you discovered smuggled goods on Donwell’s grounds. Most shocking, I must say!”
Emma gave him a regretful smile. “I’m afraid that report is quite exaggerated, sir. Nothing was actually found at Donwell, although a packet of tobacco was dropped near the Langham Path. There’s no telling who mislaid it.”
Mr. Otway frowned. “That’s not what Mr. Weston told Mr. Cole. He said it was clear it was smuggled goods.”
It was time for Emma to have a little chat with Mr. Weston about his fatal inability to keep his counsel.
“There’s no certainty about anything,” she calmly replied. “But rest assured that Mr. Knightley is taking all proper steps.”
Unfortunately, said Mr. Knightley was currently raising his voice to unaccustomed levels.
“I hate to contradict a lady,” Mr. Gilbert said, “but Mr. Larkins and Constable Sharpe had been a hair’s breadth from a walloping bout before you and Mr. Knightley arrived on the scene. Constable Sharpe was yelling about smuggling and demanding to search Mr. Larkins’s cottage.”
Drat, drat, drat.
Henry adopted an expression of angelic innocence. “What’s a walloping bout, Auntie Emma?”
“It’s best not discussed in polite company, dear,” she replied, directing a severe gaze at Mr. Gilbert.
He had the grace to blush.
“Now,” she added, “I know this situation seems most interesting, but I assure you it’s a private matter between Mr. Knightley and Mr. Larkins.”
Mr. Otway frowned. “Then what’s Constable Sharpe doing here?”
Emma adopted her best lady of the manor stance.
“Since I’m not privy to the workings of Constable Sharpe’s mind, I have no idea,” she frostily replied.
“But as magistrate, Mr. Knightley will be responding to any concerns Mr. Sharpe may have. And as magistrate,he’s directed me to ask you to proceed about your daily business.Engaging in idle speculation and gossip will only lead to confusion and misunderstandings.
I think we can all agree that would be most unfortunate.
” She gave them a curt nod. “Good day, gentlemen.”
Under such direct fire, the two men had no choice but to tip their hats and reluctantly continue on their way to Highbury.
Henry cast her an admiring glance. “Thunderbolts, Auntie Emma! I wish I could do that to people.”
“I’m sure you will one day. Unfortunately, this time I suspect it was too little, too late.”