Chapter 19
Emma marched into her husband’s study. “George, was it truly necessary to ship poor Larkins off to the Guildford gaol? Why could he not be confined here at Donwell until further investigations were made?”
He rose from his desk to meet her. “My Emma, come sit by the fire. You must be chilled to the bone from the walk back from Hartfield.”
“My fury with Constable Sharpe has kept me warm enough, I assure you.”
George led her to the sofa in front of the fireplace, and Emma gratefully sank down onto the cushions. She was feeling a trifle worn out—it had been a very trying day.
When Sharpe made his dramatic pronouncement, Emma had kicked up a tremendous fuss. Surely any self-respecting murderer wouldn’t keep a damning clue like a bloodstained mobcap in his house. It seemed obvious to her that the anonymous note-writerhad placed them there in an attempt to frame Larkins.
Unfortunately, her arguments had been hampered by the fact that Larkins had fallen into a strange sort of paralysis, looking as white and lifeless as a marble statue.
It was the shock, she supposed, but it didn’t help the situation.
And although George was inclined to believe Larkins was innocent,he was still the magistrate, so he’d been forced to concede that the items found under the floor were enough to place Larkins under arrest, at least temporarily.
While Sharpe was taking custody of their poor estate steward, George had asked Emma to hurry to Hartfield in order to get ahead of whatever garbled tale was no doubt spreading through the household—and soon farther afield.
Of course, the truth was now much worse than what it had initially seemed, but she’d seen George’s point.
And a good thing she’d gone, since Henry had returned to Hartfield most upset.
That had predictably resulted in Isabella and Father giving free rein to their emotions and kicking up a fuss.
It had taken Emma a good two hours to calm everyone down and convince Isabella to delay her departure for London until the morning.
She’d then trudged back home through the cold of a dreary winter afternoon, only to be met with the news that the dratted constable had carted Larkins off to prison.
George added another log to the grate. Once he had the flames crackling to his satisfaction, he straightened up and studied her with concern.
“Can I get you something to drink, love?”
She blew out a frustrated breath. “A sherry wouldn’t go amiss, but then I would like some answers.”
“Of course.”
He fetched drinks for both of them and then joined her on the sofa.
“I know this has been a very distressing turn of events,” he somberly said. “But I truly didn’t have a choice.”
Emma grimaced, desperately sorry for him. While George had known Larkins for years and greatly depended on the man’s support, he also considered his estate manager to be a good friend. Whatever anger and worry she was struggling with, George was bound to be feeling all of it and doubly so.
She pressed a hand to his knee. “I apologize. I let my anger get the best of me. Now, what transpired while I was gone that necessitated such drastic measures as sending Larkins to Guildford? I thought you were going to confine him here at the abbey for the time being?”
“Initially, we held him in the old butler’s pantry, with one of the grooms to stand guard.” He shook his head. “You can imagine how well that was received by the staff.”
“Not well at all, I imagine.”
“Mrs. Hodges was exceedingly upset and made no bones about expressing her opinion to Constable Sharpe. He was not well pleased.”
Emma briefly smiled. “Huzzah for Mrs. Hodges. Then what happened?”
“We showed her the mobcap.” He grimaced. “Frankly, I was afraid the poor woman would faint on the spot.”
Emma’s fleeting sense of amusement died a quick death. “Of course she identified the mobcap as belonging to Prudence.”
“Indeed, and the pink ribbon as well.”
That unwelcome revelation prompted Emma to take a fortifying sip of sherry before responding. “She didn’t have any doubts?”
“Certainly not about the mobcap. Harry also confirmed the ribbon belonged to Prudence. It was a present from her father at Christmas. Harry said she was very proud of it and showed it to him when she returned to Donwell.”
She shook her head. “That’s very bad.”
“If it’s any consolation, both Mrs. Hodges and Harry were adamant that Larkins would never harm Prudence. They were both vociferous in their defense of him, as was our head groom.”
“Sharpe was no doubt unimpressed by any of that,” she dryly replied.
George extended his booted legs toward the fire, staring moodily into the flames. “Unfortunately, what other conclusion could one arrive at, based on the existing evidence?”
“I can think of one easily—that Larkins was framed by this anonymous person.”
“I agree, but the constable was unmoved by that argument, given no evidence in that regard. Nor could I deny compelling prima facie evidence of Larkins’s guilt. As such, I had no grounds to prevent Sharpe from carrying out his lawful duties.”
“I hope the constable intends to show you the note.”
“I made it very clear that he was to do so as soon as he returned from Guildford, as well as report to me anything that Larkins might communicate.”
“I take it that Larkins was still declining to defend himself? I simply don’t understand why. His reaction seems so very odd.”
“I think he’s in a state of shock, as well as feeling a measure of guilt.”
She frowned. “What can he possibly have to feel guilty about?”
“I believe it stems from feeling that he failed to prevent Prudence’s death in the first place. He’s always taken on a great sense of responsibility toward all who reside at Donwell. And in Prudence’s case …”
Emma finished his thought. “He was in love with her.”
“Correct, which unfortunately does not help his case. It’s clear to me that Constable Sharpe is already casting Larkins as the spurned lover, whose anger and disappointment took a violent turn.”
“Anyone who knows Larkins can see that’s a ridiculous conclusion.
And according to Mrs. Hodges, Prudence didn’t even know about his feelings for her.
” She let out a snort of disgust. “Constable Sharpe is a menace. First, he insists that Prudence jumped out the window, and now he’s trying to cast Larkins in the role of the spurned lover.
He changes theories as easily as one changes a waistcoat. ”
“Unfortunately, the bloodstained mobcap does indeed suggest violence was committed against her. And then there is the presence of the ribbon. One might conclude that the murderer kept it as a keepsake.”
Emma couldn’t help feeling queasy. Yes, she’d had early suspicions that foul play might have been involved in the poor girl’s death, but nothing so close to home or as dramatic as this.
A thought struck her. “How did the constable come to know about his feelings for Prudence? It wasn’t common knowledge.”
“Mrs. Hodges and Harry were a bit too vociferous in their claims, perhaps, that Larkins would never hurt Prudence.”
She winced. “Oh dear.”
Sharpe would react to that bit of information like a hound bolting after a fox.
“Did Larkins say anything at all before he was taken away?” she asked.
“He did tell Mrs. Hodges that he didn’t do it. Not that Sharpe gave him more than a moment to put on his coat and hat before hustling him into the carriage.”
“The poor man. I assume you’re going to visit him tomorrow?”
“Yes. I’ve already asked Mrs. Hodges to pack some essentials, as well as food.”
Prisoners—or their families—had to provide for their own needs. Thankfully, she and George could take care of making Larkins’s stay in prison at least marginally comfortable.
They both fell silent, staring into the fire and lost in their own dark thoughts. Absently, Emma picked up her glass only to discover it was empty.
George cocked an eyebrow at her. “Would you like another?”
“Best not until I’ve had something to eat. I should bestir myself and see what’s afoot in the kitchen, but I can’t bring myself to face Mrs. Hodges yet.”
George took her hand and cupped it on top of his thigh. “There’s no rush. We all need time to absorb the events of the day.”
“I keep trying to make sense of it, and I simply cannot.” She held up her other hand.
“Just for the sake of argument—and I hate to even think it, much less voice it—let’s say that Larkins did kill Prudence.
Why would he keep those incriminating items?
Such an intelligent man would get rid of them immediately, and certainly never take them back to his home. ”
“I agree. Larkins is the sanest, most even-tempered fellow I’ve ever met. And when he does express irritation, it’s invariably something to do with Donwell rather than a personal matter.”
Emma hesitated for a few seconds. “Until Prudence came along. He’s changed because of her, especially since her death. I’ve never seen him so … unlike himself.”
He frowned. “Emma, are you suggesting that he might be guilty after all?”
She dodged the question. “Has it been determined exactly where Larkins was at the time of Prudence’s death? All the other servants have been accounted for, and we know now that William Cox had nothing to do with it.”
“I never thought Cox had anything to do with it,” he replied.
“But to answer your question, not really. Larkins stopped at the Crown for his supper, then walked back to his cottage to await the end of the party. Unfortunately, there’s no way to corroborate his claims that he was actually at his cottage the entire time. ”
“That’s not good, George.”
“I’m aware.”
She hesitated. “Again, just for the sake of argument, what if Larkins did declare his feelings to Prudence that night? And suppose Prudence rejected him, and … and then they fell into an argument. People can grow heated or even overwrought when it comes to matters of the heart, and it can prompt them to act in ways totally out of character.”