Chapter 20 #2
The blacksmith’s face crumpled. “My Davey give it to her last Christmas. Prudence loved pink.”
Emma glanced down the row to see David Parr cover his eyes as his brother placed a consoling arm around his shoulders. A few sniffles could be heard from the women in the crowd, and who could blame them? It was utterly heartwrenching.
Holding up the ribbon, Dr. Hughes brought it over to the jury box.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “This is the ribbon that was found under the floorboards of Mr. Larkins’s cottage, and which Mr. Parr has now confirmed belonged to his daughter.”
Dark murmurings arose.
“Hang the bastard,” someone growled. “He clearly did it.”
“Hanging’s too good for the likes of him,” exclaimed another. “Chop off his bleeding head.”
Emma spun in her chair to glare across the room, trying to identify the culprits. Unfortunately, most of the people glared back at her or refused to meet her eye.
“Quiet in the courtroom,” barked Constable Sharpe.
“Emma, turn around,” whispered George.
She gave one last glower for good measure before facing forward again.
George took her hand. “It does no good to be angry with them. The evidence against Larkins is hard to deny, based on what they’ve heard.”
“But they know him, and they know him to be a good man.”
“Order in the courtroom,” intoned Dr. Hughes.
Since he was obviously directing his statement at her, Emma mustered an apologetic smile. The coroner simply nodded and— surprisingly—moved on. He’d never been a fan of hers, but she had to admit he was conducting the inquest in a fair if rather long-winded fashion.
“Mr. Parr,” said Dr. Hughes, “according to the testimony of those at Donwell Abbey, your daughter was not given to strong drink. And yet on the night of her death, there was evidence that she had been drinking spirits, possibly to excess.”
Mr. Parr’s cheeks flushed a deep red. “That’s a blasted lie, or my name’s not Parr. Prudence never touched strong drink. Hated the way it tasted. Nor would she risk her job, either by filching a bottle from Mr. Knightley or by getting fuddled.”
Dr. Hughes held up his hands. “It is not my intention to besmirch your daughter’s reputation, sir.”
“You’d best not, you nor anyone else,” barked David Parr from the front row.
With a fair degree of tact, the coroner decided to ignore him.
“Only one more question, Mr. Parr,” he said. “Do you know if your daughter had a suitor, or was romantically involved with anyone?”
Mr. Parr sucked in a deep breath, as if trying to temper his emotions. “I don’t know, sir. I thought she might have a beau, but she was very closemouthed about such things. Which was unlike Prudence, I’ll add.”
Then the bereaved father’s anger slipped the traces again, his voice rising in agitation. “I’ll tell you one thing for sure. If she were involved, it weren’t with that Larkins.” He glared at the crowd. “She’d never involve herself with the likes of him.”
The coroner frowned. “What do you mean?”
“A bloody Irishman! I wouldn’t stand for it, and neither would her brothers.
Everyone knows you can’t trust the Irish.
They should have stayed in that godforsaken country where they belong.
” He jabbed a finger at the jury. “Take my word for it—Larkins is guilty of murdering my poor girl, and he’d better hang for it. ”
As if someone had stuck a pin in her backside, outrage shot Emma to her feet. “I’m very grieved for your loss, sir, but that is most unfair. Mr. Larkins is a good, kind man, and he would never hurt anyone.”
Dr. Hughes glowered at her over his too-small spectacles. “Mrs. Knightley, you must not interrupt the witness. Please take your seat.”
Emma ignored him and spun to face the jury. “You know what I’m saying is true. Mr. Larkins has never been anything but good and helpful to everyone here in Highbury. He’s been your neighbor for years!”
A tall man in a shabby greatcoat, seated near the back, jumped to his feet. “Parr has it right. You can’t trust them Irish. Papists and criminals, the lot of them, and Larkins ain’t no different. It’s clear as day he killed the poor girl.”
For a moment, the room froze in a shocked tableau.
Then it exploded into a maelstrom of voices, with the remaining friends of Larkins jumping to their feet to admonish the man in the greatcoat.
Others did the opposite, proclaiming their agreement that the Irish could never be trusted.
Even the dreadful Anne Cox added to the din, loudly stating to the room at large that everyone knew Mr. Larkins was a dodgy one.
Fortunately, Mrs. Cox promptly employed her velvet muff and whacked her daughter into silence.
“Order, order,” shouted Dr. Hughes, “or I’ll be forced to have Constable Sharpe read the Riot Act!”
He might as well have been yelling into the void.
Emma’s father tugged on her sleeve. “My dear, you must sit down! These dreadful people might hurt you!”
By now, George was on his feet. He held up an imperious hand, looking every inch the stern magistrate.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out in a commanding tone. “You will cease this commotion immediately. If not, Constable Sharpe will read the Riot Act. We will then remove people from the room and apply the full force of the law under the Act.”
“Just say the word, Mr. Knightley,” barked the constable, “and I’ll be happy to oblige.”
The combined threats did the trick, and the room was restored to order with astonishing speed. Emma couldn’t help notice, though, that the man in the shabby greatcoat took the opportunity to slip out of the room.
Not from around here.
“Good riddance,” she muttered.
Her husband grasped her wrist and pulled her back down into her seat. “Emma, I would prefer you not be arrested, either.”
She grimaced, now rather appalled by her loss of temper. “I apologize, but I couldn’t let Larkins be so besmirched.”
“I understand. Nevertheless, you must make allowances for Mr. Parr’s grief. I’m sure he doesn’t realize what he’s saying.”
Emma glanced at the man, who was still glaring at the jury. Grief might have driven him to say what he did, but she also felt sure he didn’t regret a word. And even if he did, the damage was done.
Now that calm had been restored, Dr. Hughes dismissed the witness. Emma was struck by the fact that the coroner declined to ask the jury if they had any questions for Mr. Parr, which was their right. Most likely he was afraid of another outburst, either from the Mr. Parr, the spectators, or …
Me.
The next witness was Constable Sharpe, who unfortunately made it clear that he believed Larkins had murdered Prudence.
After very briefly discussing the anonymous note that had tipped him off, he described the discovery of the smuggled tobacco packets, the mobcap, and the pink ribbon with what she considered distasteful relish.
“George,” she whispered to her husband when the coroner moved on. “This is dreadful. Sharpe has quite glossed over that business with the anonymous note.”
“Patience, love,” he whispered back.
After the constable finished, Dr. Hughes asked the jury if they had any questions. Mr. Weston, the jury foreman, raised his hand. “Does Constable Sharpe know the identity of the person who wrote the note regarding Mr. Larkins’s alleged culpability?”
Emma had to swallow a smile. Clearly, her husband and Mr. Weston had chatted at some point.
Constable Sharpe’s pinch-face grew surly. “As I said in my testimony, the note was anonymous. So obviously I don’t know who wrote it.”
“How would the person who wrote even know that Mr. Lar kins was in possession of these items, or where they were hidden?” Mr. Weston asked. “Is it not possible that this anonymous person also planted the items under the floorboards so as to divert suspicion from someone else onto Mr. Larkins?”
“A good point, sir,” called Mrs. Wallis, the baker’s wife. “Seems mighty strange, all this anonymous business.”
Some in the crowd rumbled in agreement.
“Remind me to place a very large order with Mrs. Wallis next week,” Emma whispered to George.
He snorted under his breath.
“Order,” rapped Dr. Hughes. Then he turned to the constable. “Please answer the question.”
Constable Sharpe left off glaring at Mr. Weston to reply. “The investigation is ongoing, but it could be that the person who wrote it was a smuggler like Larkins, and would therefore know where the evidence was stashed.”
“If so, that person is a criminal and hardly a reliable source of information,” said Mr. Weston in a disapproving tone. “Therefore, it seems premature to accuse Mr. Larkins of murder, when he may have been set up by this anonymous person for reasons unknown.”
The constable looked ready to argue, but Dr. Hughes forestalled him.
“Your questions have merit, Mr. Weston,” the coroner said.
“And I will enter them into the record. However, we must remember that the only business of this jury is to decide if murder has been committed, not who did it. That will be decided by a trial at a later date. I will also ask you to defer any additional questions about smuggling until we hear from our next witness.”
Mr. Weston nodded his compliance and resumed his seat.
“Constable Sharpe, you are released,” intoned Dr. Hughes. “I now call the last witness, Officer Algernon Clarke.”
Emma frowned. “Is that … ?”
“Yes, the prevention officer from Leatherhead,” said George. “He’s been watching the proceedings from the back of the room. Observing potential suspects, I would imagine.”
Emma swiveled to watch the man walk up the middle aisle. A certain degree of scowling and disgruntled muttering followed in his wake. Clearly, there were those in Highbury who had more sympathy for the smugglers than they did for the officers tasked with preventing their criminal deeds.