Chapter 28 #2
Isabella shuddered. “Yes, and he injured himself in the process. I still can barely sleep at night, thinking of him all alone in the cold and the dark.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “It was only a sprain, Mama, and I got up right away. It was stupid of me to fall in the first place.”
John hugged his son. “Nonsense, my boy. You were very brave, and we’re all very proud of you.”
“Indeed we are,” said George with a smile.
“I missed all the exciting bits, though,” Henry said. “Back at the abbey.”
“And a good thing, too.” Isabella glanced at the watch pinned to her waist. “Now, I think it’s time for you to be in bed, dear. It’s quite late.”
“But I want to hear all about the dastardly Guy,” the boy protested.
“You most decidedly do not,” his mother firmly replied. “John, tell Henry it’s time to go to bed.”
“Your mama’s right, my boy. Say good night to everyone and then it’s off to bed.”
Henry rolled his eyes and protested a bit more, but at his father’s prodding dutifully exchanged hugs with his grandfather and then Emma.
“I’ll tell you all about it later,” she whispered to him as she returned his embrace.
Her nephew beamed at her, and then let his father lead him off without further complaint.
After handing his son over to a waiting footman, John returned to sit next to Isabella.
“Now that Henry is safely out of the way,” said Emma, “please don’t keep us in suspense any longer. What did the evil Guy have to say for himself?”
George, who’d fetched himself a brandy, settled into the chair next to Emma. “Quite a bit, as it turned out. Between Plumtree’s testimony and the information supplied by the runner we hired, we now have what I think is a faithful and mostly complete picture of events.”
“I’m surprised to hear that,” Emma said. “I was convinced that Plumtree would try to blame everything on Harry or refuse to talk. Did he actually admit to killing Prudence?”
“He did.”
She frowned. “But wouldn’t that send him straight to the gallows? How could that be in his best interest?”
George nodded toward his brother. “John came up with a very effective strategy that had the effect of loosening Plumtree’s tongue.”
Isabella gazed adoringly at her husband. “I’ve always said that John is quite the most clever barrister in London.”
John flashed his wife a smile as he affectionately took her hand. “It was nothing, my dear, really.”
“Dearest, you are being much too modest, as you always are.”
As happy as Emma was to see Isabella and John restored to their usual state of domestic bliss, she was anxious to hear what this strategy actually was.
“So, what did you suggest?” she asked with a hint of impatience.
John tore his gaze away from his wife. “What? Oh, I suggested to Plumtree that he wasn’t in his right mind when he murdered Prudence, and that such might be a useful defense at trial.
Under the Criminal Lunatics Bill, one can escape the gallows if found to be of unsound mind while committing the crime. ”
Miss Bates scrunched up her face. “I suppose that makes sense. No sane person could throw that poor girl out the window. Prudence was so terribly kind and sweet.”
“But do you think a court would truly find him insane?” asked Emma. “He struck me as exceedingly calculating. And he certainly was sane enough to fool the rest of us.”
And yet, there’d been a coldness and cruelty about him that had been distinctly unnerving. It had crossed her mind in those terrible moments that night that he’d lost his grip on reality.
John shrugged. “It’s a high bar, I’ll admit, but it’s the only chance he’s got. I offered to help his father find a barrister skilled in such cases in exchange for talking to us.”
Emma sighed. “Poor Squire Plumtree. You saw him today, as well?”
“We did,” George replied in a grim tone. “The poor fellow is devastated, and he blames himself. By neglecting his duties at Plumtree Manor, he allowed his son to come to such a state.”
Mr. Weston scoffed. “Nonsense. I had to send Frank away as a child, and he’s a capital fellow. Guy’s simply a villain who deserves all the punishment coming to him.”
“Did he tell you how he killed Prudence?” Emma asked her husband.
It was the how that she still found so perplexing.
“Perhaps it’s best to start at the beginning,” George replied. “With the smugglers, and how they ended up at Donwell in the first place.”
“Harry explained that,” Emma pointed out. “They needed a safer place to store their goods. When you decamped to Hartfield, that gave them the opportunity they were looking for.”
Father flapped an agitated hand. “And a good thing George moved to Hartfield. It would have been dreadful if he’d been forced to live at Donwell with smugglers coming and going at all hours of the night. Who knows what they might have done to him.”
“Father, it was George’s move to Hartfield …” Emma shook her head. “Never mind. Go on, dearest.”
“Harry was only one spoke in the wheel,” George continued.
“An important one, but the history of this particular gang goes back further than Harry’s role in it.
Thanks to Mr. Weston’s quick thinking, we were able to identify one of their most important depots along the route to London—an inn from which they’d been operating for some years. ”
Mr. Weston waved a self-deprecating hand. “Just an old military tactic, old fellow. Divide and conquer.”
“It worked,” George said. “Directing two of your footmen to follow the smugglers on that last run from Donwell was a bit of genius.”
“How brave of those footmen! And how wise of you, Mr. Weston,” exclaimed Miss Bates. “Were those terrible smugglers captured?”
“They were,” Mr. Weston replied. “The smugglers holed themselves up for the day at the inn, thinking themselves safe. My lads alerted the local authorities, who caught the blighters dead to rights.”
“Once Mr. Weston alerted me about that,” said George, “I notified Mr. Clarke. Events moved quickly after that.”
That was certainly true. The first thing Emma had done after Constable Sharpe arrested Guy Plumtree that dreadful night was to pen an urgent note to George.
At first light, one of Hartfield’s grooms had set off for John’s house in Brunswick Square.
George and John had arrived back in Highbury by midafternoon and, after reassuring themselves that their respective family members were all well, had launched into the investigation.
The past three days had been a flurry of activity involving meetings with lawmen, runners, and revenue agents.
Fortunately, most of that had taken place at Donwell, sparing Father and Isabella constant disruptions to their peace.
“Poor Mr. Clarke,” said Miss Bates with a sigh. “To be called from his sickbed to deal with such a dreadful situation.”
“He’s recovered fairly well,” George replied. “And he’s happy to see the resolution of this case. The Trotman Gang has been operating in these parts for years along the roads up from the coast, and it has now been thoroughly dismantled.”
Emma blinked. “Trotman. As in …”
“Harry Trotman,” George dryly replied. “Donwell’s footman.”
Emma sighed. “Right under our noses the entire time.”
“Good heavens,” exclaimed Mrs. Weston. “That must mean Harry wasn’t simply doing this on the side, in addition to his duties.”
George nodded. “He was an integral part of the gang founded by his father, Stanley Trotman. Their base of operations was a tavern that Trotman owned on the outskirts of London.”
“The same gang that used the Crown Inn as a depot when Mr. Stokes was alive,” noted Emma.
“Yes. The Crown was a convenient waystop, but Trotman was forced to adjust the route when Mrs. Stokes turned them away. While they continued to use our church on occasion, for the most part they reduced their activity in and around Highbury.”
Emma frowned. “I don’t entirely understand what Harry was doing in the mix. Guy mentioned that Harry’s father wished him to oversee the route in Surrey, but why a footman at Donwell?”
“According to Mrs. Trotman, it was her husband’s idea.”
“Wait, there’s a Mrs. Trotman?” exclaimed Mrs. Weston. “How did you find out about her?”
John set down his brandy and took up the narrative.
“That was down to Phelps, our runner. As you know, he’s been working the case from the London end of things.
His investigations led him to a tavern in Hampstead, which he then put under observation.
Once the smugglers coming from Donwell were apprehended and Mr. Clarke sent word they were part of the Trotman Gang, Stevens put together a force of runners to raid the tavern and arrested Trotman and his accomplices. ”
Miss Bates pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Gracious! This all sounds like something out of a novel.”
“An exceedingly bad novel,” Father huffed. “The Trotmans appear to be the most unsavory sort of persons.”
“Criminals generally are,” John sardonically noted.
Emma waved an impatient hand. “May we get back to Mrs. Trotman? What was her role in all of this?”
“She was a very useful witness, as it turned out,” said George. “Once her husband was under lock and key, she was quite happy to speak with Phelps.”
“Why would she give testimony against her own husband and son?” Emma asked.
George hesitated. “Let me just say that the Stanley Trotman was neither an affectionate husband nor loving father. Mrs. Trotman had wished to escape from under his thumb for some time— as did Harry, apparently.”
“And yet Harry was doing his father’s bidding,” she responded.
“Somewhat reluctantly, as it turns out. It was Stanley Trotman’s idea to place Harry at Donwell as a footman.
From there, Harry would oversee the smuggling ring in this part of Surrey and look for potential places to store their contraband.
As customs enforcement became more effective, the gang was forced to alter their route on a fairly regular basis. ”
“If that’s the case,” Emma said, “it was a stroke of good luck for them to get Harry placed at Donwell.”