Chapter 24
When Harriet entered Hartfield’s drawing room, Emma gratefully put aside her needlework and stood. “How are you, dear? I vow, it’s been an age since we spoke.”
Harriet gingerly returned Emma’s embrace around her expanding girth.
“I apologize, Mrs. Knightley. Robert hates for me to go out when there’s ice on the road. I keep telling him there is no ice on the road, but he’s convinced I’ll take a tumble.”
“He’s just being protective. That’s his job.”
“The midwife says I have almost three months to go before my lying-in, and I swear Robert would lock me away for the whole time if I let him.”
Emma laughed. “How did you manage to escape today?”
“My mother-in-law gave Robert a scold. She said she worked right up to the day she gave birth to him, and that a little exercise and fresh air would be good for me.”
“She’s right about that, though I expect no one in the Martin household expects you to work right up to your lying-in.”
Harriet crinkled her nose. “They all spoil me terribly.”
Emma drew her to sit on the sofa. “No one deserves a little pampering more than you. Did you walk to Hartfield?”
“Yes, with my sisters-in-law. They had to do some shopping in Highbury. Robert asked, please, if one of your footmen could escort me home.” She huffed. “It’s so silly. I feel perfectly fine.”
“I’ll take you myself,” Emma said. “I’ve been cooped up all day and would be happy to walk off the fidgets.”
“Robert says Mr. Knightley has been away for a few days. When does he return home?”
“I hope to see him this afternoon. He and John are working on a defense for poor Larkins. They’re also looking into hiring a Bow Street Runner to investigate the smuggling. That’s doubly necessary now with Mr. Clarke out of commission.”
Harriet clucked her tongue in sympathy. “Poor Mr. Clarke. But I heard Constable Sharpe deemed it a robbery that had nothing to do with the smugglers?”
“You know what a dimwit he is. Why else would Mr. Clarke be in the churchyard after midnight? He was obviously onto something. He must have been set upon by the smugglers because he was getting too close.”
Harriet glanced over her shoulder before leaning in. “It’s actually about the smugglers that I wanted to speak with you.”
Emma smiled. “You needn’t whisper, dear. I promise there are no smugglers in our household.”
Harriet looked solemn. “You never know who could be listening.”
“That’s an alarming remark. Whatever can you mean?”
“It’s rather hard to explain, because I promised someone that I wouldn’t reveal their identity. Or what she … I mean, they, specifically told me about what was taking place … in the place where things were taking place.”
Emma frowned. “Harriet, you’re beginning to sound like Miss Bates.”
“I know. But it’s most important that I keep my promise, because my friend … this person is very frightened.”
Ah. That was interesting—and disturbing.
She took a guess. “I take it your friend—clearly a woman— has been threatened by smugglers?”
“Not specifically, but …” Harriet hesitated, clearly torn between her promise and the need to relay important information.
Emma laid a hand on her arm. “If you wish to withhold this person’s name, I completely understand. Still, the more information you can give me, the more we can do to stop these terrible men before they hurt anyone else.”
Harriet wavered a bit, then nodded. “Well, my friend came to visit me this morning. Her husband is a farmer in the parish next to Donwell. The smugglers have taken over the use of his barn to store contraband on its way to London. In the beginning he tried to say no, but they beat the poor man quite terribly. After that, he was too afraid to refuse their demands.”
Anger and frustration mingled in equal portions in Emma’s breast. How could these awful people keep getting away with their reign of terror?
“I’m so sorry, Harriet. How long has this been going on?”
“For a year.”
“And I take it your friend’s husband hasn’t reported this to anyone?”
Harriet shook her head. “He’s too frightened. And he’s afraid the revenue agents might blame him, because the smugglers insisted on paying him. He thinks it makes him look guilty.”
It would make him look guilty, which was no doubt the gang’s intent. Beat the man into compliance and then make it appear as if he were a willing participant.
“Why did your friend come to you now?” Emma asked.
“Because things are getting worse. The smugglers are demanding that her husband start storing even more goods they bring from their runs, and more frequently. She thinks something’s gone wrong.
” Harriet twirled a hand. “With the smugglers, I mean. That something happened to their normal route, and now they have to use my friend’s farm to store even more contraband. ”
Emma thought for a moment. “Perhaps the smugglers lost access to one of their other storage depots.”
Like the bell tower of a church.
“Or,” she thoughtfully added, “they had to shift their normal route because someone like Mr. Clarke was getting too close.”
“All she knows is that something has changed.”
Emma studied her friend. “Harriet, why did she come to you, specifically?”
“She knows you are my friend, Mrs. Knightley. She … she thought you could do something.”
“Because I’m married to the local magistrate?”
Harriet gave her a sheepish smile.
“I understand,” said Emma, “but it’s not much to go on.”
“I’m sorry, but I did promise her,” Harriet unhappily replied. “I can’t break my promise.”
“I know, dear. I’ll think of something.”
Her friend looked dubious.
Emma tapped her knee, pondering the situation.
As it was, going to George with this information wouldn’t be terribly useful.
There were a great many farms and tenant farmers within the surrounding parishes.
Trying to identify the correct one, while not quite a needle in a haystack would still be a monumental task, especially if the farmer was too frightened to talk.
Then a piece of the puzzle suddenly clicked into place.
“I have it,” she exclaimed. “We need to speak to a farmer.”
Harriet blinked. “Why?”
“Given the predilection of smugglers to use farms as storage depots, it’s reasonable to assume that other farmers in the area have also been coerced into working with the gang. Or, at least, have been approached by them.”
“Are you saying we should try to find farmers who might be working with the smugglers?” Harriet asked in a skeptical tone. “I don’t think Robert would like that. He takes a very dim view of smugglers and won’t have anything to do with them.”
“I’m not suggesting we do anything dangerous. I am suggesting that we speak to the one person who knows more about what goes on in our local farming community than anyone else. Even more than my husband.”
Energized, Emma jumped to her feet. “Come along, Harriet. I’ll walk you home. That person lives on the way.”
A quick walk to Riverwatch Farm took them just down a tidy lane off the village high street.
No one in Highbury knew the local farming community better than Farmer Mitchell.
He was also an intelligent, thoughtful man whose opinion was very much worth considering.
If anyone could elucidate the mystery of smugglers preying on local farmers, it would be he.
As they turned into the drive, Mr. Mitchell must have spotted them, because he came hurrying down from the farmhouse to meet them.
“Mrs. Knightley, Mrs. Martin,” he exclaimed. “It’s a cold day to be walking about the village. Come inside to the parlor before you catch yourself a chill.”
“You sound just like my father,” Emma teased.
Farmer Mitchell cast her a shrewd glance. “I’ll wager Mr. Woodhouse doesn’t know you’re out strolling country lanes with Mrs. Martin.”
She tapped the side of her nose. “Then let’s keep it our little secret, shall we?”
He returned her smile as he ushered them through the front door.
Riverwatch Farm was a tidy, prosperous establishment with an excellent dairy that produced cheeses much in demand throughout the district.
The Mitchells had resided in Highbury for several generations, and the farmhouse reflected its age in a hodgepodge of shapes and styles.
But it was in excellent repair, and the furnishings, though not particularly stylish, were of good quality and just what one would expect of a respectable farming family.
“My missus is away for the afternoon,” said Mr. Mitchell, “but if you ladies will take a seat in the parlor, I’m sure I can rustle up a decent sort of tea.”
“Thank you, but no,” said Emma. “Unless Harriet would like some tea.”
Her friend smiled. “I’m fine. I’ll have tea when I return home.”
Emma took one of the low armchairs by the fireplace, and was immediately grateful for the crackling blaze. With a sigh, Harriet eased down onto the well-cushioned sofa opposite.
Farmer Mitchell planted his burly form between them, a slight expression of puzzlement marking his genial features. “Then how can I be of service this day?”
Emma hesitated. “It’s rather a delicate subject, so I’m not sure—”
“It’s about the smugglers,” Harriet blurted out. “And how they’ve been threatening people.”
So much for delicacy.
Then again, that was Harriet. Tact was not one of the dear girl’s strong points, even when caution was the order of the day.
If Farmer Mitchell was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, he calmly took a seat in an old leather armchair next to Emma. “Can I ask why you’re talking to me instead of Mr. Knightley or Constable Sharpe?”
Emma gave him a look. “I rather think you can guess why we’re not going to Constable Sharpe.”
Mr. Mitchell snorted. Due to some of the events surrounding last year’s investigation into the murder of Mrs. Elton, he had as low an opinion of the constable as she did.
“My husband is currently in London,” Emma added. “Besides, the person who is being threatened is a farmer.”
“So you thought to talk to a farmer about it, I reckon.”