Chapter 25 #2
Her husband regarded her with a sardonic eye. “Can I stop you?”
She smiled. “I suppose you could lock me in our bedroom.”
“And you would pick the lock.”
As he led her from the room, Emma decided she’d quite like to learn how to pick a lock. Given the events of the past few weeks, such a skill might come in handy.
Mr. Barlowe seemed to crumple before their eyes. Since George had just threatened to haul him in front of a revenue agent, the curate’s reaction wasn’t surprising.
“I swear, Mr. Knightley,” he pleaded, “I had nothing to do with it. The smugglers were using the bell tower for storage long before I arrived in Highbury.”
Emma exchanged an astonished glance with George.
“Truly?” she asked Mr. Barlowe.
He bobbed his head like a demented peahen. “I’ll tell you everything I know, which isn’t really very much. As long as you don’t haul me in front of a revenue agent, that is.”
What little color remained in his face drained away. Emma didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone go so pale before—at least while still alive.
“And please don’t tell the bishop,” he added. “I’ll never get another position.”
“Who and what I tell depends entirely on you,” George sternly replied.
They were sitting in the main drawing room of the vicarage— a very cold drawing room, since Mr. Barlowe declined to build a fire. Given his initial reluctance to speak with them, he’d probably hoped to freeze them out and send them on their way.
He’d certainly been surprised to see them and had only reluctantly invited them into the vicarage.
The curate had initially denied any strange doings in the church’s bell tower, while also vowing that he knew nothing about smugglers.
It wasn’t until George donned his magistrate’s persona and threatened him with legal action that the man had cracked.
And thank goodness for that, because Emma was exceedingly tired of being cold. Solving a murder and rousting a smuggling ring in the middle of January was not for the faint of heart.
George speared Mr. Barlowe with a stern gaze. “How do you know the smuggling activity predated your appearance in Highbury?”
“The vicarage cook told me. She said that the vicar before Mr. Elton was the one who started it all.”
Yet another unwelcome surprise.
“That would have been Mr. Allen,” said Emma, shaking her head. “I cannot believe it. He seemed such a respectable man.”
“Did Mr. Elton continue this arrangement?” George asked.
“Cook said he was frightened by the smugglers and did his best to ignore them.” Mr. Barlowe shuddered. “Which I can certainly understand. Look what the brutes did to poor Mr. Clarke.”
Emma glanced at the decanters and liquor bottles inside the breakfront. “I suppose that accounts for the excellent spirits and tea you have here.”
Mr. Barlowe nodded. “Payment in kind for using the bell tower for storage.”
“But you said the smugglers had stopped using the bell tower when you arrived in Highbury?” asked George.
The curate’s gaze darted about the room, looking anywhere but at them.
“So I had assumed,” he finally replied. “I … I never saw any signs of activity in the tower or anywhere else in the church. Nor did my cook mention it.”
“Come, Mr. Barlowe,” Emma said in a skeptical tone. “I saw the marks on the bell tower floor. They looked very much like someone had been dragging about casks. I very much doubt they were from pews stored up there.”
George frowned. “What pews? They haven’t been replaced in decades.”
When Emma raised her eyebrows at the curate, he winced.
“All right, I did that,” he admitted. “Or, rather, it was Mrs. Stokes and a few of her men from the Crown Inn.”
Emma felt her jaw sag. “Are you suggesting Mrs. Stokes is part of the smuggling ring?”
He flapped his hands. “No, of course not. She has nothing to do with it, as far as I know.”
“Then what the devil was she doing in your bell tower?” George demanded.
“I asked her to take what was left. Two casks of spirits were still there when I took up the position in Highbury. I don’t know why they were left behind, and I don’t care. I just wanted them gone!”
“Because of the increase in the smuggling activity?” George asked.
“Yes, and because of Miss Parr’s death. Everyone was asking questions, first about that poor girl and then about the smugglers. I … I grew frightened. If anyone thought to look up in the bell tower, they would see the casks and think I was involved.”
Emma exchanged another glance with George.
“What does Miss Parr’s death have to do with the smugglers?” she asked as calmly as she could manage.
The curate blinked at her question, as if genuinely surprised. “Nothing, as far as I know. Although I suppose that’s not right, because Larkins is obviously guilty of both crimes.”
Emma scoffed. “That is not true.”
Mr. Barlowe was obviously recovering, because he bristled at her. “Everyone else seems to think he’s guilty.”
“Then everyone is exceedingly stupid,” she retorted.
George touched her knee in silent warning.
“Mr. Barlowe,” he asked, “did you truly hear or see nothing on the night Mr. Clarke was attacked?”
“I did not, sir. My bedroom is on the other side of the house, facing away from the churchyard. It was only by chance that I found him the next morning.”
That response, at least, had the ring of truth.
Emma blew out a frustrated sigh. “If the smugglers weren’t using the church anymore, why were they up in the bell tower in so visible a fashion?”
George thought for a few moments. “They must have wanted to be visible, to attract Mr. Clarke’s attention.”
The puzzle piece dropped into place.
“So they could set upon him and make it look like a robbery.” Emma huffed in disgust. “Which was the conclusion drawn by Constable Sharpe, naturally.”
The curate pressed a hand to his mouth, looking both ill and ill at ease. Emma couldn’t shake the sense that the man was still withholding something.
“Mr. Barlowe, why did you ask Mrs. Stokes to remove the casks instead of coming to me?” asked George.
He had the grace to look ashamed. “I know it was very wrong, but I was frightened of what you and others might think. I worried it might affect my position here in Highbury.”
“You don’t know my husband very well, do you?” Emma dryly responded.
“I don’t know anyone here very well, Mrs. Knightley,” he stiffly replied.
“Which I would suggest is your fault, sir.”
He started to huff when George interrupted him. “So Mrs. Stokes simply agreed to take your request to remove the casks?”
Mr. Barlowe struggled to calm himself. “No, she was most unhappy about it. But I managed to persuade her. I suppose she took pity on me.”
George glanced at Emma and rose, extending a hand to help her to her feet.
“Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr. Barlowe?” asked George. “If so, I would strongly advise you to do it now.”
The curate came unsteadily to his feet, as if his knees were knocking. “I know nothing else, sir. I promise.”
“And I’ll hold you to that promise.”
Mr. Barlowe morosely trailed them to the front door.
“If you think of anything else at all, send me a note immediately,” said George in his best magistrate’s voice.
Mr. Barlowe shifted nervously from one foot to the other. “You may be sure of it, sir. You have my word.”
Then he ushered George and Emma out the door, banging it behind them.
“I suppose we must cross him off our list of suspects,” Emma said with a sigh.
“I never had him on it,” George replied. “The man seems frightened of his own shadow, and is certainly too frightened to be a smuggler.”
“True. Yet, I cannot help but feel he’s withholding something.” She grimaced. “I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“While Mr. Barlowe is obviously not forthcoming by nature, I believe we put the fear of God into him. I cannot imagine him withholding anything of value at this point.”
“I hope you’re correct,” she said as they started to walk briskly up Vicarage Lane. “By the by, are you thinking we should pop in on Mrs. Stokes?”
Her husband’s glance was amused. “How did you know?”
“Unlike Mr. Barlowe, I know you very well.”
“I’m happy to hear it. And, yes, I feel a visit to Mrs. Stokes is in order.
Although I believe her to be innocent of smuggling, I cannot forget her reaction to Mr. Clarke at the inquest. If you recall, she seemed most uncomfortable at the suggestion that some in Highbury might be in receipt of contraband goods. ”
“I had forgotten that. I hope you’re correct that she’s not involved.”
“I feel certain there’s no direct involvement. Still, she might be able to provide us with useful information. Innkeepers often know more about the contraband trade than anyone.”
By now they were approaching the Crown Inn. It was quiet at this time of day, as both tradesmen and laborers were still at work. Although a coaching establishment, the Crown never had much traffic in that regard, since Highbury was fairly out of the way.
They stepped inside to see Mrs. Stokes down the hall, behind the high counter that served to check in the occasional guest. She glanced up, clearly surprised to see them.
“Mr. Knightley and Mrs. Knightley, my word,” she exclaimed as she came round the counter. “How can I help you?”
A tall, sturdy woman with a deceptively placid manner, Mrs. Stokes was well able to handle the sort of incidents that occurred in a coaching inn and tavern, including dealing with the occasional raucous customer.
She became the sole proprietor of the Crown after the death of her husband some years ago, and had a reputation for running a clean, respectable establishment.
“Good afternoon,” said George. “My wife and I were hoping to chat with you. Perhaps we could step into your office for a bit more privacy?”
The woman’s steady hazel gaze grew wary, but she simply nodded. “This way, if you please.”
She led them into a small office behind the counter that held a desk, two wooden chairs, and several shelves neatly stacked with ledgers.