Chapter 24 #2
Emma opened her hands. “You know every farmer in the area, Mr. Mitchell, and I’m quite certain you’re not involved in any smuggling operations.”
His lips twitched. “Sure of that, are you?”
“I most certainly am.”
“Then you’d best tell me what it’s about, and I’ll see if I can help.”
Emma glanced at Harriet, who related the tale she’d told earlier. Mr. Mitchell asked a few questions but mostly held his peace, listening with a thoughtful frown.
“I’m sorry to hear of such goings-on right here in Highbury,” he said when Harriet had finished.
“But smugglers have been running up from the coast for as long as anyone in these parts can remember, often using the abandoned Roman roads. I remember flaskers and freetraders doing their runs right past Highbury when I was a boy.”
Harriet tilted her head. “What’s a flasker?”
“A freetrader who runs liquor.”
“It appears you’re not surprised to hear that smugglers are operating near or in Highbury,” Emma said.
He thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “Maybe I am a bit. There’s not been much activity this close to the village in years—not till that dustup with poor Mr. Larkins. If the freetraders have been operating in our vicinity, they’ve kept it mighty close to the vest.”
Emma leaned forward. “So, you don’t believe Larkins is a smuggler, either.”
He scoffed. “I’ve never met a man more God-fearing and upright in my life.
It was a barmy notion to think he’d take such a risk, much less betray Mr. Knightley.
If you’ll remember, ma’am, I was on the coroner’s jury.
It seemed pretty clear to me that your take on the matter was the right one.
Mr. Larkins was set up for a fall. But as that pompous blowhard—I mean, Dr. Hughes—pointed out, our job was to decide if murder had been done, not who did it. ”
“So until this incident with Larkins, you’d heard nothing of any recent import about smuggling nearby?” Emma asked, to be sure.
“Mayhap one or two things, but nothing I paid much attention to. I’ve certainly heard no tale of farms being used for depots, or farmers being threatened.”
Emma sighed. “We were hoping you’d heard something.”
“I haven’t, but I know someone who might be able to help.”
She perked up. “Yes?”
He lumbered up from his chair. “I’ll fetch him now. Won’t take more than a few minutes.”
As he exited the room, Emma and Harriet exchanged a surprised glance.
“I wonder who it is?” said Harriet.
They didn’t have long to wait for Mr. Mitchell’s return. Only a few minutes later, they heard the rumble of masculine voices. Mr. Mitchell re-entered the room, followed by another man dressed in rough working clothes.
“Mr. Curtis,” exclaimed Emma. “How nice to see you again.”
The weather-beaten, middle-aged man flashed a broad grin. “And you, Mrs. Knightley. But it’s just Dick, ma’am. There be no need to be fancy with the likes of me.”
Dick Curtis was a local laborer who’d fallen on hard times after injuring his hand in a farming accident.
Thankfully, the Mitchells had taken him under their wing, giving him as much work as he could perform.
Emma and George had also had occasion to help him in the past, earning Dick’s undying loyalty.
“Mrs. Martin, you’re lookin’ well,” he said with a genial nod. “And I’m happy to be helpin’ you in any way I can, Mrs. Knightley. Mr. Mitchell’s explained to me about them bastards—” He grimaced. “Beggin’ your pardon, ladies. What them varlets are doing to your friends.”
“Have you heard reports of anything like that?” Emma asked.
“Not exactly, but I’m fair certain I had a run-in with them same smugglers just a few months ago.”
Emma’s heart skipped a beat. “Truly? Do you have any idea who they are?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Knightley. It was night, and they were all but disguised. That don’t mean I didn’t take note of some things, though.”
Mr. Mitchell tapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t keep the ladies waiting, man. Tell her what you told me back then.”
Dick scoffed. “I’m gettin’ there, never fear.
Anyway, it was like this, Mrs. Knightley.
I was walkin’ home from the Crown one night in November.
I was almost there when two blokes came out of the bushes at the end of the lane.
Surprised me something fierce, they did.
Had no idea they were there, and by the looks of them, they were up to no good. ”
“How did they look?” asked Emma.
“Well, they had scarves wound up round their faces and their hats pulled down round their ears. It weren’t that cold a night, so there was no reason to swaddle themselves up like that.”
“They didn’t want to be recognized,” Emma replied.
“You got it, missus.”
“So, you had a run-in with them. What did they want?”
“For me to work for them on some runs. Help them transport goods through Surrey to London.”
Harriet stared at him. “They just came up to you like that and asked you to work for them?”
“It’s not that unusual,” interjected Farmer Mitchell. “Smugglers sometimes approach farm laborers in the winter months, when work is scarce.”
“And you only spoke to them outside in the lane?” Emma asked Dick.
“Aye. I sure wasn’t gonna let the likes of them into my cottage.”
“Hmm.”
Harriet tilted her head. “What are you thinking, Mrs. Knightley?”
She remembered that when the smugglers approached William Cox, they did so quite openly in a tavern. These men, however, had been a great deal more circumspect, and she couldn’t help wondering about the difference.
“It’s not important at the moment,” she replied. “What did you tell them, Dick?”
He looked sheepish. “Something that ain’t proper to say in front of ladies.”
Emma had to laugh. “The gist of it was no.”
“It definitely was, ma’am.”
“Good for you. Now, what else can you tell me about them? From their voices, for instance, might they have been locals or strangers?”
Dick crossed his arms over his burly chest. “I could have sworn I recognized one voice, but now I’m not so sure.”
Emma pounced on that. “Someone local?”
“Aye, but I’m sure it weren’t no Mr. Larkins, I can tell you that.”
“You’re certain.”
“Aye.”
“What about the other one?”
Dick held up his good hand. “Now, he was interesting. Better dressed than the other fellow, and I was thinkin’ he wasn’t a workin’ bloke or a farmer type. He tried to disguise his voice by talking low, but I could tell he weren’t no country folk.”
Emma’s brain spun for a moment over that tidbit. “That’s interesting. Could you tell anything else about him? Tall, broad-shouldered, short—anything like that?”
Dick frowned. “Not a brawny fellow, I can tell you. Average, I guess. He was wearing a greatcoat, so it was a bit hard to tell.”
Emma pondered how to phrase the next admittedly sensitive question, but then decided to take a page from Harriet’s book.
“Dick, this may seem like a strange question,” she said, “but do you think either of these men could have been Mr. Barlowe?”
Harriet squeaked and Mr. Mitchell’s jaw sagged, but Dick simply frowned.
“Who’s Mr. Barlowe?” he asked.
Drat.
“He’s Highbury’s curate.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Knightley,” Dick apologetically said. “Don’t know him. I’m not much for churchgoin’ these days.”
“Or at all,” Mr. Mitchell tartly commented.
“Happens you’re right,” Dick replied with unimpaired calm. “I haven’t been much for church ever since old Mr. Bates was vicar. And then when my dad passed on … I used to take him, you see.”
“I understand,” Emma said with a sigh. “I was just taking a bit of a wild guess.”
Mr. Mitchell cast her a shrewd glance. “You’re thinking of what happened to that prevention officer, and the lights in the bell tower.”
“You heard about the lights?”
“I expect everyone in the village has by now.” Mr. Mitchell tapped his chin. “I’ll say this, though. If Barlowe does have his nose in this, he wouldn’t be the first clerical gent to get involved with freetraders.”
Harriet squeaked again, obviously appalled by that observation.
“Dick, can you think of anything else that might be of note?” asked Emma.
He shook his head. “Sorry, missus. I wish I could.”
She rose. “Don’t be sorry. You’ve been incredibly helpful. Would you mind if I relayed this information to my husband?”
Dick smiled. “You do whatever you think best, Mrs. Knightley. You and your husband are top of the trees for me.”
Emma couldn’t hold back a grin. “Thank you.”
Mr. Mitchell helped Harriet up and escorted them outside, with Dick following.
Emma stopped in the drive. “Would you do me the favor of keeping our discussion private for now? I don’t want to start any harmful rumors about …”
“About Mr. Barlowe.” The farmer nodded. “Never fear, ma’am. Dick and I know how to keep our mouths shut.”
“Thank you. I’m very grateful to both of you.”
“Goodness,” exclaimed Harriet as she and Emma walked down the drive. “I can hardly believe that someone as mild as Mr. Barlowe could be involved in anything so dangerous. I certainly can’t imagine him threatening anyone.”
“I suppose not,” Emma replied.
Still, she would bet a bob that the vicar was involved somehow. There were simply too many coincidences starting to build up.
Could he also be guilty of murder, callously pushing Prudence to her death? Emma thought not. But what if he’d had an accomplice, someone who—according to Dick—might be a local man, as well? Could that mystery person be responsible for Prudence’s death?
Her instincts told her that she was finally on the right track. And if that was the case, Highbury might have more than smugglers lurking in its midst. It just might have a ruthless killer, as well.