Chapter 18 #2
By now, the argument seemed to have subsided to a dull roar. Emma and Henry hurried over to the cottage.
Mr. Larkins grimaced with embarrassment. “I’m sorry you had to be exposed to this, ma’am. My apologies.”
“There’s no need to apologize, dear sir.” She glanced at Constable Sharpe and sniffed. “I’m quite sure someone else was responsible for this unfortunate scene.”
George let out a quiet sigh. Constable Sharpe just glared at her.
“If some people would stop obstructing justice,” Sharpe finally snapped, “there wouldn’t be no need for a scene.”
“I find there is never a need for a scene, Constable,” she loftily replied. “And I hope the problem will be sorted before any more locals wander by to witness so unfortunate a performance.”
He pointed at Larkins. “That’s up to him.”
“Constable Sharpe has apparently received information that Larkins is in receipt of smuggled goods,” George explained. “He’s insisting on searching the cottage.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” she exclaimed. “Larkins would never purchase smuggled goods.”
The steward looked grim as death. “That’s what I said. But Sharpe, here, he’s insisting to nose around in my things.”
Emma tsked. “How very rude.”
“It makes no difference if it’s rude,” the constable retorted. “I’ve got a duty to follow up on the information, especially in light of yesterday’s discovery.”
“This supposed information sounds very fishy to me,” she shot back.
Constable Sharpe bristled like a terrier ready to go down a rat hole, but George held up a restraining hand.
“We have set that matter aside for the moment,” he said. “As we know Larkins has nothing to hide, I have convinced him to let you search the cottage—under my supervision.”
“Just as you say, Mr. Knightley,” Constable Sharpe stiffly replied.
“That’s very accommodating of Mr. Larkins,” Emma said. “I will keep him company while you conduct the search under Mr. Knightley’s supervision.”
The constable scowled. “There’s no need for you to be present, ma’am.”
“None the less, I will remain.”
“Well, then, I certainly won’t have a child at my crime scene,” he blustered.
“This is not a crime scene,” George austerely replied. “I agree, however, that Henry should return to Hartfield.”
“But Mr. Larkins is my friend,” their nephew protested.
Emma stroked his hair. “Your mother will be wondering where you are, dearest. I promise to come straight to Hartfield once we’re finished here.”
The lad reluctantly nodded. “All right. Goodbye, Mr. Larkins. Thank you for everything.”
Larkins crouched down to meet Henry at eye level. “It’s I who should be thanking you, Master Henry. Give my best to your mother, and here’s wishing you safe travels back to London.”
“Off with you,” Emma said, giving her nephew a gentle nudge.
He sighed and trudged off toward Highbury.
“Are you finished now, Mrs. Knightley?” the constable asked in a sardonic tone.
Not deigning to respond to his rudeness, Emma swept past him and into the cottage. The warmth inside made her sigh with relief. It was a dreary, cold day, and although engaging in a frac tious debate with someone as stupid as the constable may boil one’s brain, it did little to heat the limbs.
The estate steward’s domicile was an old stone cottage with thatched roof.
Although not large, it had been lovingly maintained over the decades, and its current resident had made a number of improvements.
The walls were painted a cheery yellow, while comfortable furniture adorned the main room, with the living area set off from a small pantry and basic kitchen.
A door to the side of the fireplace led to a nicely sized bedroom,and a steep set of stairs in one corner climbed up to a tidy garret.
All in all, the cottage was just right for a bachelor— perfectly cozy and comfortable, and near enough to Donwell to attend to work yet far enough away to provide a spot of privacy.
Emma moved to the cheerfully blazing fire to warm her hands. A kettle hung off to the side, ready to be heated. A plate of scones, along with tea-making necessities, were at the ready on a small kitchen table.
“Can I get you a cup of tea while you wait, ma’am?” Larkins asked.
The poor man looked exhausted. His color was high, likely from arguing with their idiotic constable. Lines scored his face, and his eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed. His gaze seemed haunted, as if something unbearably heavy was dragging on his spirit.
Prudence.
“I’m fine,” she said, “but it looks like we interrupted your breakfast. Please do have your tea, Mr. Larkins.” She leaned in a bit. “You look like you could use a cup.”
He dredged up an answering smile, and Emma could feel the effort he made in doing so.
Larkins jerked his head toward the constable making a show of searching the cottage, even crouching down to look under the small sofa. “I’ll have a bit once his worship is done and gone,” he said.
Predictably, the constable glared at him. “You won’t be getting rid of me that easily, laddie boy.”
George narrowed his gaze to irritated slits. “His name is Mr. Larkins, Constable.”
Sharpe’s only response was to mutter something about bloody Irishmen under his breath.
That was not good.
When she cast a significant gaze at George, he gave her an unhappy little nod.
Larkins had encountered his fair share of bigotry when he’d first been hired, but that had mostly evaporated over the years.
Unfortunately, it seemed that the old hatred against the Irish still lurked beneath the surface, at least for Sharpe—who happened to be in a position of authority.
They stood in tense silence while the constable continued to conduct a thorough search.
He even thumped down his booted foot on sections of the floor, and once he got on his hands and knees to inspect the floorboards.
When he dug through the firebox, looking for heaven knew what, Emma could no longer keep silent.
“Good heavens,” she exclaimed. “You can actually see what’s in there, sir—just kindling.”
“I know my business, Mrs. Knightley,” the constable snapped, apparently finished digging. “I’ll thank you to let me get on with it.”
“And may I point out that you did not find anything in the firebox, which is no surprise.”
“Emma,” her husband warned.
“Really, George, it’s all quite absurd. And why is he inspecting the floor like that? One would think Constable Sharpe might be about to effect repairs on a loose board or two.”
The constable failed to bristle up, instead giving her an odd little smile, and it sent a chill slithering down her spine.
“An interesting comment about the floorboards, Mrs. Knightley,” he said.
“There’s nothing interesting about floorboards,” she replied.
“We’ll see about that.”
“Constable, are you finished in this room?” George asked in a long-suffering tone.
“I am, sir. For now.”
“Then I suggest you move into the bedroom so we can put this matter behind us as quickly as possible.”
The constable stalked off to the bedroom. George followed.
Emma glanced at Larkins, who’d moved to stand by the fireplace. His arms were crossed over his chest as he gazed absently into the flames.
“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” she said. “This is just a silly misunderstanding.”
“I know, ma’am,” he calmly replied. “I was that upset that Sharpe made such a fuss and bother in front of Master Henry. That’s what set me off more than anything.”
“I don’t blame you.” She lowered her voice. “The constable can be quite annoying. I’ve had more than one run-in with him, I’m sorry to say.”
Larkins seemed about to reply when a triumphant exclamation sounded from the bedroom.
“What in the world?” Emma said.
She hurried over to the door to see Sharpe once more on the floor. He’d somehow removed a floorboard—it must have been loose—revealing an open space.
“I told you, Mr. Knightley,” the constable crowed.
Larkins slid past Emma into the room. “What are you about, man? Why are you taking up my floor?”
Sharpe reached down and extracted a small package, holding it up and waggling it. Emma’s heart plunged down to the pit of her stomach.
“A tidy stash you have here, Mr. Larkins,” the constable said. “Smuggled tobacco it is, hidden under a loose board. That is exactly the information I received.”
He reached down and extracted a second package. Both were identical to the one Emma had found in the bushes off the old footpath.
When she glanced at Larkins, his entire expression suggested extreme surprise and shock. In that moment, Emma would swear on the Good Book that Larkins was as stunned as she was. He’d obviously had no idea what had been hidden under the bedroom floor like a hideous secret.
“Larkins, what can you tell me about this?” George asked in a troubled voice.
The steward rubbed an agitated hand over his head. “I don’t know what to say, sir. I’ve never seen those packages in my life.”
“So, you’re saying that someone snuck into your cottage and stowed them there?” the constable sarcastically asked.
“Well, I damn well didn’t put them there,” Larkins retorted. Then he grimaced. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Knightley, but I swear I don’t know how they got there.”
“I believe you, Mr. Larkins,” Emma replied.
“And that board has never been loose, at least not recently,” he added. “I would have noticed if it was.”
“I’m sure you would have,” she soothingly replied. “George, there must be a reasonable explanation for this.”
“Larkins, do you lock your door when you leave your cottage?” George asked.
He nodded. “Always, sir. I have some good pieces of silver I inherited from my ma. I’d be that upset if they were stolen.”
Emma mentally winced. Clearly, the poor man had no idea that his reply was a problem. His brogue was also starting to manifest itself, a sure sign he was perturbed.
“An enterprising thief could certainly pick the lock to your door,” she said.
“Mrs. Knightley, thieves don’t pick doors to come in and stash stolen goods,” said Constable Sharpe. “They pick locks to come in and steal things, not stow them.”
Sadly, his logic was sound.
“Constable, the information you received specifically stated you would find smuggled goods under the floorboards?” said George.
“It did, sir.”
Emma scrambled to think. “That makes no sense. How would that person even know about the loose floorboard unless he’d broken in and planted those packages himself, to deliberately cast suspicion on Mr. Larkins.”
The constable scoffed. “That’s a leap if I ever heard one. People don’t go around framing people for smuggling and such like.”
She stared at him, incredulous. “People do frame innocent people, you might recall, even for murder. And, again, how would someone know about a loose floorboard in the bedroom, so as to alert you to its presence?”
“Who said it was in the bedroom?” the constable retorted. “And I don’t need to be explaining myself to you, Mrs. Knightley.”
“No, but you will explain yourself to me,” said George in a stern voice. “My wife has asked a very reasonable question, one I would like answered.”
When Sharpe began to protest, George cut him off. “Immediately, Constable Sharpe.”
The annoying man grumbled but finally replied. “I received an anonymous note this morning.”
“When?”
“Early, it was slipped under my door.”
Larkins snorted, his disdain clear.
“May I see this note?” George asked.
Sharpe squirmed a bit. “I left it back at my house.”
Emma huffed with growing outrage. “This is utterly ridiculous. The very fact that it’s an anonymous note proves my point.
Someone is clearly trying to cast suspicion on Larkins, although why they would wish to do so I cannot imagine.
It’s not as if there’s any evidence of smugglers actually in Highbury. ”
“Of course there is,” said Sharpe. “He’s standing right in front of us.”
“I’m no smuggler,” Larkins gritted out.
“Constable Sharpe,” said George, “I wish to see that note as soon as possible. In the meantime—”
“In the meantime I’ll be arresting Larkins for smuggling,” Sharpe cut in. “Especially in light of the information you gave me the other day, sir.”
Emma could practically feel Larkins vibrating with repressed fury.
“George, surely that’s not necessary,” she hastily said. “All this shows is that Mr. Larkins’s home contained smuggled goods. And although that would certainly be regrettable, possession is hardly a capital crime. As Mr. Weston said the other day, it’s a fairly frequent occurrence.”
Her husband nodded. “I agree.”
“Sir, I swear I don’t know where those packages came from,” Larkins protested.
“And I believe you,” George calmly replied. “We are simply making the point that simple possession of these items does not justify an arrest.”
Larkins grimaced. “But people will already be talking about it. It’s my good name that’s on the line, and if folks around here think I’ve been taking in smuggled goods, well, that reflects badly on you too, Mr. Knightley.”
“You’re not to worry about that now, Larkins.”
Emma patted Larkins’s arm. “The most important thing is that Mr. Knightley and I believe you. You’ve not done anything wrong, and there’s no reason to arrest you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Constable Sharpe said in a queer sort of voice.
He was still on his knees on the floor. He’d been silent for a few minutes, as he continued to search under the boards.
Carefully, he extracted what looked like a scrap of fabric from the hole. Was that a … pink ribbon in his hand?
“What is that?” asked George.
Holding the items with great care, the constable rose to his feet. Then he held them up to the light coming in from the window over the bed.
Emma found a sense of dread creeping over her.
“It’s a mobcap, like the kind a maid would wear,” the constable said. “And a hair ribbon.”
George swiftly took the mobcap from the constable. The plain white cap was indeed the sort of thing a maid would wear as she went about her day. It would fully cover her hair, with minimal trimming.
George turned it over, exposing the other side, and Emma’s stomach lurched sideways. She had to struggle to force out the words.
“Is that … ?” she whispered.
“Blood,” George tersely replied.
Larkins breathed out a groan. Every ounce of color had drained from his ruddy complexion, leaving him as pale as a corpse.
Constable Sharpe aggressively elbowed George out of the way. “William Larkins, I’m arresting you for smuggling and for the murder of Prudence Parr.”