Chapter 23 #3
“Ah, finally,” Emma triumphantly exclaimed.
After pulling the brick fully out, she reached into the hole and extracted a key.
Miss Bates regarded her with wide eyes. “How did you know that was there?”
“It’s where the caretaker stows an extra key. I saw him put it there one day when I brought flowers to the church.”
Emma opened the door and quickly ushered in her companion. It wouldn’t do to linger where they might be seen.
On an overcast winter’s morning, the old church was shrouded in silence and shadows.
Even the stained glass windows held barely a hint of color, the figures a muted reflection of their usual glory.
The stone monuments mounted between the windows seemed to blend into the walls, and the lack of light made everything appear flat and lifeless.
It seemed as if the old church was hibernating as it waited for the warmth and color of spring.
It was also so cold that Emma couldn’t repress a shiver.
“It is quite drafty, isn’t it?” said Miss Bates in a worried tone. “Perhaps we should leave. It wouldn’t do for you to catch a chill.”
“I’m fine. Anyway, we won’t be long.”
Emma led the way to a staircase in the back corner.Lifting their skirts, they climbed the narrow, twisting stairs, ducking their head under the low doorframe when they reached the belfry.
The top of the tower was a tall, narrow space, with the center taken up by the frame that supported the bell and wheel.
The noble old bell was not particularly large, so its timber frame left the perimeter of the room clear for storage.
Emma hadn’t been up in the tower since she was a girl, but remembered it had been used for storage of broken furniture and other detritus collected by vicars over the years.
Now, though, the tower was empty and surprisingly free of dust. The floor looked like it might have been recently swept.
“My word, it’s very clean, isn’t it?” said Miss Bates. “When my father was vicar, he used to store all manner of things up here.”
“Hmm,” Emma muttered as she began to make her way around the room.
She was trying to make out what seemed to be odd-looking marks on the floor when a ray of winter sunlight streamed in through the high windows.
“Ah, that’s better.” She crouched down, running a hand across a mark scored into the floor.
Miss Bates joined her. “What is it?”
Emma pointed. “Does this not look like something was dragged across the boards?” She glanced toward the door and pointed. “But not over there.”
“How odd. What do you make of it?”
Emma straightened up. “It would appear that some object or objects were dragged away from the wall.”
Miss Bates peered down at the floor. “But only partway.”
“Yes. I would guess it was then picked up and carried.”
“But what could it have been?”
Emma thought for a few moments. “A small cask or casks, perhaps?”
“You mean spirits?” Miss Bates replied, aghast.
“Or tea, possibly.”
“Mrs. Knightley, how dreadful! To think my father’s dear little church could be used in such a sinful manner.” Then she blinked. “And what of Mr. Barlowe? He couldn’t possibly know about this, could he?”
“That is the question,” Emma replied.
Further perusal verified there was nothing more to see, so she ushered Miss Bates down the winding staircase.
They’d almost reached the bottom when they heard quick footsteps coming from the back of the church.
Miss Bates froze, as did Emma. She mentally crossed her fingers hoping that whoever it was hadn’t heard them.
But the door at the bottom of the staircase suddenly flew open to reveal the curate. Mr. Barlowe gaped at them for a moment before his expression transformed into a scowl.
Of all the bad luck… .
“Mr. Barlowe,” Emma exclaimed in a dementedly bright voice. “What a surprise.”
“I might say the same, ma’am,” he blustered. “What could you be doing up in the bell tower?”
She scrambled to come up with a plausible excuse, but was forestalled by Miss Bates.
“My dear sir, we heard about the terrible events of last night. So shocking! We were on our way to call on Mr. Perry, to ask him to check on poor Mr. Clarke. Our dear Perry could no doubt be of great service to Mr. Clarke in his time of trial.”
“I can assure you that Mr. Perry is not up in the bell tower,” Barlowe frostily replied.
Emma sighed, resigned to telling the unfortunate truth. “We heard reports of lights in the tower last night at about the time Mr. Clarke was attacked. I thought it might be useful to have a look around so I could report back to my husband when he returns from London.”
Mr. Barlowe went still as death. His complexion suddenly mimicked a rather good imitation of a corpse, too.
“Is something wrong, sir?” Emma asked.
He made an effort to recover himself. “It certainly is. You are snooping about my church, where you have no business.”
“Sir, I don’t mean to criticize,” Miss Bates apologetically said, “but my father was in the habit of leaving the church open as much as possible when he was vicar. He encouraged people to spend time in here, and the children quite enjoyed climbing up to the bell tower, back in his day.”
“That may be so, but I do not leave the church open.”
“Someone must have,” Emma said, crossing her fingers behind her back. “How else would we have gotten in?”
Miss Bates made a slight choking noise but held her peace.
“Be that as it may, I would ask you to leave now,” the curate impatiently replied.
He then shooed them out of the building as if they were a pair of obstreperous geese, and made a point of locking the door before turning back to them.
“I hope your curiosity was satisfied, Mrs. Knightley,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
Emma shot up a hand. “Just a quick question, Mr. Barlowe. We noticed some odd scrape marks in the belfry that looked recent. I have to wonder what could have left such marks.”
His lips pressed into a thin, reluctant line. Emma simply smiled and waited him out.
“Pews,” he tersely replied.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Old pews, Mrs. Knightley. They were stored in the loft. I had them taken away by a scrap dealer, which is why the floor is marked up.”
“I see. And when was this?”
“Last week. I do not remember the day.”
“Do you remember the name of this scrap dealer?”
He scowled. “Of course not. He was an itinerant peddler.”
“Ah.” That was a convenient answer.
“Did you see any lights or sign of activity in the bell tower last night?” she went on to ask.
“Of course not.”
“But surely you heard something,” put in Miss Bates. “Poor Mr. Clarke was attacked, and apparently quite viciously. Did you not hear sounds of a struggle or a call for help?”
“No,” he huffily replied. “If I had, you may be sure I would have done something.”
Emma decided to press him. “Mr. Barlowe, do you think it’s possible that smugglers were using the bell loft to store their contraband goods?”
He stumbled backward, slightly banging his elbow into the church door.
Muttering, he rubbed it while continuing to glare at her.
“With all due respect, that is a ridiculous notion. I would certainly be aware if smugglers were using my church. Besides, Constable Sharpe has already determined that Mr. Clarke was the unfortunate victim of a robbery.”
Emma made a skeptical noise. “In the churchyard, in the middle of the night? That seems very odd, especially for Highbury.”
“You may ask the constable yourself, or even Mr. Clarke.”
“And how is he?” asked Miss Bates.
“Very poorly, I’m afraid. The villains were harsh with him.”
Emma raised her eyebrows. “So there was more than one villain?”
The curate seemed to mentally freeze for a moment before recovering himself. “Apparently, although Mr. Clarke was hazy on the details. He took a blow to the head, so his memory is impaired.”
“But he remembered there was more than one attacker?” Emma clarified.
“I … yes, I believe so.”
“And what led Constable Sharpe to conclude it was a robbery and not smugglers? After all, Mr. Clarke is a prevention agent. Why else would he be in the churchyard in the middle of the night?”
Miss Bates gave a vigorous nod. “Very true, Mrs. Knightley. It’s most wicked, of course, but storing contraband in churches does happen, as you know.
My father told us once of a church in Chiddingfold where smugglers stored their goods.
In the attic, you understand, without the vicar’s knowledge.
The poor man was giving his Sunday sermon when one of the casks— quite a large one, apparently—fell through the ceiling and smashed into the middle of the aisle.
Thankfully, no one was injured, but it took weeks to get rid of the odor of brandy. ”
“Oh dear,” Emma said, stifling an impulse to laugh.
“And when you were snooping, did you find any brandy in the loft?” the curate angrily demanded.
Emma’s fleeting amusement vanished. “There’s no need to be rude, sir. We’re simply asking reasonable questions.”
“Then I suggest you address them to Constable Sharpe,” he retorted. “As I said, he feels certain the villains were thieves. After all, Mr. Clarke’s billfold and watch were missing.”
Emma shrugged. “That could simply mean they were both thieves and smugglers.”
“Mrs. Knightley, I would again ask you—”
“Ho, Barlowe,” called a friendly voice. “At last I find you.”
They all turned to see Guy Plumtree strolling up the church walk, an easy smile gracing his handsome features. He cast a curious glance at Emma before giving her and Miss Bates a courtly bow.
“Ladies, it’s a pleasure to see you both,” he said. “I hope I find you well.”
Miss Bates dropped a slight curtsy. “Very well, Mr. Plumtree, thank you.”
He glanced at the curate. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Barlowe. Did you forget we had an appointment this morning?”
“Of course I didn’t forget. Now you’ve found me, so I fail to see the problem.”
Guy’s eyebrows ticked upward at the ungracious reply. “No need to snap, dear fellow. All is well.”
Emma, however, was beginning to think the curate’s snappishness had less to do with rudeness and more with being rattled by her questions.
Mr. Barlowe finally unbent a bit. “I was at the Crown Inn with Mr. Algernon Clarke. He was badly injured last night.”
“Set upon by villains in the churchyard,” Miss Bates helpfully supplied.
Guy’s expression registered astonishment. “In Highbury? How appalling. Does anyone know why?”
“Thieves.” Mr. Barlowe cast a sour glance at Emma. “Although Mrs. Knightley seems to think it had something to do with smuggling. Which is ridiculous, of course.”
“There’s no need to be snappish, dear fellow,” Guy gently admonished. “Mrs. Knightley would certainly have grounds to think such a thing. After all, Donwell’s estate manager has been accused of that very crime.”
Now it was Emma’s turn to bristle. “Unjustly, I might add.”
Guy flashed her a quick, apologetic smile.
“Forgive me, ma’am. I had no intention of giving offense.
I’ve met Larkins on occasion, when my father had dealings with him.
He always struck me as a sensible and decent fellow.
I was sorry to hear of his predicament, and of course I extend my sympathies to both you and Mr. Knightley. ”
Mollified, Emma gave him a nod. “Yes, it’s dreadful, but I’m certain we’ll clear his name.”
“I hope so,” Guy replied. “And of the murder charge, as well.”
“Heavens,” exclaimed Miss Bates. “I refuse to believe that our dear Mr. Larkins could be guilty of such a crime. Indeed, I still struggle to believe anyone in our village could have anything to do with murder or those dreadful smugglers.”
“It is shocking,” Guy said with great sympathy.
“Unfortunately, it’s more common than one would think.
Poor rural folk do it to earn extra money, and one can hardly blame them.
I’m afraid many of the gentry see nothing wrong in trafficking with freetraders, either.
” His smile was rueful. “Or the gentlemen, as my father likes to call them. He himself has always been quite comfortable with the whole business, as is quite common in his generation. Naturally, I have discouraged him, and to good effect, I think.”
“Gracious,” exclaimed Miss Bates. “I would never have thought such a thing of your father.”
Guy shrugged. “He’s very old-fashioned, ma’am. However, I believe I’ve reformed him—at least I hope so.”
After that further admission, an awkward silence descended on their group.
Then Guy clapped his gloved hands together. “But here we are keeping you ladies standing about in the cold. Barlowe, where are your manners? Have you not invited the ladies in for tea?”
The curate bristled. “I’ve hardly had the chance. Besides, we do have an appointment, as you recall.”
“I do.” Guy smiled at Emma. “Can we escort you ladies anywhere first?”
“Thank you, but no. We’re just walking up the street to call on Mr. Perry.”
“Then we shall make our goodbyes. Have a pleasant day, Mrs. Knightley. Miss Bates.”
Guy doffed his hat and took Mr. Barlowe by the arm to lead him off in the direction of the vicarage.
“What a strange conversation,” commented Miss Bates. “I’m quite shocked to hear about Squire Plumtree. I never would have thought of it.”
Emma also found it hard to believe that so respectable a man could be involved with smugglers.
But was he actually involved? Might he even know the names of the men who made up the gang, or was it just the usual arrangement—a few casks of spirits left on the doorstep in exchange for turning a blind eye to runs across his estate?
They were questions that begged for answers.