Chapter 22
“Mrs. Knightley, do hold up!” cried a familiar voice.
With a sigh, Emma turned to wait for Miss Bates, who was hurrying through the village square to join her.
Avoiding uncomfortable questions was why she’d snuck out of Hartfield so early this morning.
She’d not counted on Miss Bates’s preternatural ability to be precisely where Emma did not wish her to be.
The spinster fluttered up to her like a little wren darting among the hedgerows—albeit a wren sporting a luxurious velvet muff that dangled from one wrist. Garbed as she was in her sensible brown pelisse and plain bonnet, the enormous and undoubtedly expensive muff presented quite the contrast.
“Good morning, Miss Bates,” Emma said. “You’re out early.”
“Yes, I popped down to the bakery to place an order for an apple tart and tea cakes from Mrs. Wallis. Mrs. Goddard and Mrs. Martin are coming by this afternoon, and I wished to have something special.”
“They will be happy for the treat,” Emma replied. “But you must be busy, so don’t let me keep you.”
“Always so kind, Mrs. Knightley, but Patty will take care of everything. She’s so capable, as you know.”
Patty, the Bateses’ maid, was indeed efficient, and Emma was running out of excuses.
Miss Bates cast her an inquiring look. “When I saw you pass by the bakery, I couldn’t help but wonder why you were up so early. Are you off to Donwell Abbey?”
Drat.
“Actually, I’m on my way to Ford’s,” she reluctantly replied. “I thought to stop in first thing, before Mrs. Ford got busy.”
“I suppose Mr. Woodhouse is needing new gloves? But, that cannot be right. You got him new gloves just last week.”
“No, but I think he might—”
Miss Bates waved her arms. “I know! You’re going to speak to her about what Mr. Clarke said last night, aren’t you?”
Emma hastily stepped back to avoid being clocked in the chin by the enormous muff.
“Do forgive me,” Miss Bates said, wrestling the muff under control. “I quite forget I have this around my wrist.”
“It’s, er, rather large,” Emma replied.
Miss Bates flashed her a shy smile. “Your father gave it to me for Christmas. It’s much too extravagant for me, but he insists I use it on cold days. Since I’m going to Hartfield after my errands, I thought to wear it.”
“I … I didn’t know Father gave you such a lovely gift,” Emma said, trying to stifle a laugh.
The muff was indeed quite lovely, though much too large for a petite woman like Miss Bates.
The spinster leaned in, as if confiding a secret. “I’ve never worn muffs, since I always forget about them or misplace them. But now I don’t wish to disappoint Mr. Woodhouse.”
“It’s splendid, and you should absolutely wear it. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Mrs. Knightley, I think I should go with you,” Miss Bates said with uncommon determination.
“Mrs. Ford might feel a trifle nervous regarding this subject. Why, I lay awake half the night just thinking about it! Since she and I are such particular friends, she might feel more comfortable answering questions if I’m there. ”
Emma had to admit that Miss Bates had been surprisingly helpful these last few weeks. She possessed such a kind presence and everyone loved her. Certainly, no one could feel threatened by her.
“Very well, but we must be careful and discrete. This is a very delicate situation.”
When Miss Bates clasped her hands, the muff banged against her torso. “How exciting! I feel as if I’m living in the pages of a thrilling novel.”
“Not a very good one,” Emma dryly commented.
“Oh dear, I suppose that’s true. I promise I will be as quiet as the proverbial church mouse while you interrogate Mrs. Ford. And no one will be able to compel me to give up any information we might learn, no matter how great the pressure.”
Emma eyed the woman’s earnest expression, rather wondering if Miss Bates had a secret predilection for sensational novels.
Highbury was starting to bustle. It promised to be a fine day with clear skies and a refreshing nip to the air. They exchanged hellos with a few of the townsfolk and nodded to Mr. Gilbert as he doffed his hat and rode by on his mare.
A glance into the wide bay window at Ford’s, gaily festooned with a display of winter hats, assured Emma that no other customers were present.
Those bonnets, however, gave her pause. The high feathers and trim they sported were rather too extravagant for a milliner in a place like Highbury.
For the first time, she wondered how Mrs. Ford managed to so often stock her establishment with merchandise of higher quality than one would normally see in a village this size, and at reasonable prices at that.
Only one way to find out.
The little bell over the door jingled them in. Mrs. Ford was behind a long counter. Her attention was focused on a ledger, but she quickly glanced up and hurried over to greet them.
“Mrs. Knightley, Miss Bates, good morning. What brings you out so early?”
Highbury’s milliner was a woman of both sensible demeanor and dress.
Her gowns were well tailored but never showy, as if she preferred the focus to remain on her merchandise rather than herself.
A widow of some years, her entire life revolved around the shop and her loyalty to her customers.
Ford’s was an institution in their village, and its proprietor had always been considered above reproach.
Until now.
“Miss Bates and I wished to speak to you before you got busy,” Emma said.
“Oh? How can I be of assistance?”
“I have a question—just a little one, really. It’s about something Mr. Clarke mentioned at the inquest.”
Mrs. Ford sucked in a startled breath.
Emma hesitated, but then decided there was nothing for it.
“As you might recall, he raised concerns about smugglers having some influence in Highbury. Naturally, one doesn’t wish to believe anyone in our village would be involved in such things.
I was wondering, perhaps, if you could shed some light on Mr. Clarke’s observations. ”
“I don’t see how I possibly could,” Mrs. Ford stiffly replied. “I know nothing about how smugglers operate, here or anywhere else.”
“Of course not,” Emma said in a soothing tone. “And why would you? But we were just wondering—”
“If you’ve ever been in receipt of smuggled goods,” Miss Bates bluntly interjected.
Mrs. Ford turned as white as the cravats displayed in her shop.
So much for making the poor woman comfortable.
Miss Bates reached over and took the shopkeeper’s hand. “Dear Mrs. Ford, please don’t be angry with me. No one believes you could be in league with those horrible smugglers. I almost fainted dead on the spot when Mr. Clarke suggested it!”
The poor woman began to look ill. “Mr. Clarke thinks I’m smuggling contraband goods?”
Emma put up her hands. “He simply suggested that the occasional shipment of smuggled goods might have found their way into some of the local shops. He has no intention of accusing anyone.”
“That we know of,” Miss Bates added with lamentable candor.
“What?”
Emma winced. Mrs. Ford had quite a loud screech.
“Ma’am, there’s no need to panic,” she said. “Mr. Clarke’s attention is focused on the smuggling gang, not on Highbury’s merchants. I promise you that.”
Mrs. Ford made an effort at composing herself. “Mrs. Knightley, what do you want me to say?”
“Only the truth. As you know, Mr. Larkins has been accused of murder and smuggling. My husband and I are convinced that both charges are false. Naturally, the murder investigation is out of my … our hands, but I do think we can assist Mr. Clarke in ascertaining if there is evidence of smuggling in Highbury.” She gave Mrs. Ford an encouraging smile.
“And who better to ask than you, who knows everyone in our village?”
Mrs. Ford’s chin tilted up, and she began to look unfortunately stubborn. “I’m still at a loss as to what you think I might know, Mrs. Knightley.”
Emma could be stubborn, too. “You deal with any number of merchants and suppliers, many of them in London. Have you ever seen any indication that they might be passing on smuggled goods to Highbury’s shopkeepers?”
Mrs. Ford stared back, obstreperously silent.
Miss Bates again touched her arm. “It’s for Mr. Larkins. You know he’s a fine man, and think of all the good he’s done for Donwell’s tenants. If we cannot help him, who knows what will happen?”
“He’ll end up on the gallows,” Emma grimly said.
“I know,” Mrs. Ford finally said. “And I do wish to help the poor man. All I can say is that if Mr. Larkins is involved in smuggling, I’ve heard no tale of it from the other shopkeepers in the village.”
“Nothing against him, not even rumors?” Emma asked, wanting to be sure.
“Not a word.”
“Thank you,” Emma replied. “Now, please don’t think I’m judging you, but is it possible that you may sometimes be in receipt of contraband goods from some of your suppliers? The quality of your merchandise is comparable to that found in many expensive London shops. How do you manage it?”
The woman grimaced. “Mrs. Knightley, you’re married to the local magistrate. I don’t know how to answer such a question.”
“My husband’s only interest is in discovering who murdered Miss Parr and clearing Mr. Larkins’s name. I promise you, anything you tell me will go no further than Mr. Knightley.”
Of course, George probably wouldn’t approve of her making such promises, but Emma was convinced there was no other way.
“My lips will also remain forever sealed,” Miss Bates stoutly added.
Mrs. Ford cast her a dubious glance. Miss Bates had the least discretion of anyone in Highbury, with the possible exception of Mr. Weston.
The spinster held up a hand. “I vow on my father’s grave.”
The milliner blew out an exasperated breath. “Very well. I do wonder if one of my suppliers receives contraband goods, especially the Belgian lace and a few other items.” She pointed to the hats in the window. “The feathers, for one. You might have noticed the quality.”
Emma nodded. “I have. Is this a London supplier?”