Chapter 28 #4
“We cannot know,” George replied. “What we do know is that Plumtree was not reassured by Harry’s insistence that he could manage Prudence. He decided, obviously without Harry’s knowledge, that Prudence needed to be silenced.”
Miss Bates dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, clearly overcome. “That poor, poor girl. And when I think of how many pleasant conversations I had with Guy over the years … why, it’s almost impossible to believe.”
“I for one never trusted the Plumtrees,” said Father in a severe tone. “The squire is much too bluff and blustering for my comfort.”
“He’s a good man for all that,” Mrs. Weston gently corrected. “One cannot help but feel for him.”
“And his son is the opposite of blustering,” Emma noted. “He’s the proverbial snake in the garden. But, George, we saw Prudence’s room and there was no evidence of a struggle. How did Guy manage to avoid it?”
“Ah, that was because he dosed her with one hundred proof spirits.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Mr. Weston. “That’s awful.”
“I don’t understand,” Emma said with a frown. “What does that mean?”
“One never drinks any spirit—brandy, port, or gin—in a pure distillation,” Mr. Weston replied. “It’s always watered down in order to make it palatable and safe. If one were to drink one hundred percent alcohol, one could become insensible very quickly. If one drank enough, it could even be lethal.”
Emma pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling slightly queasy. “It was Guy who filched the decanter of sherry from the drawing room, wasn’t it? He doctored it with spirits and fed it to Prudence, knowing it would render her unconscious— or even kill her.”
“Correct,” George replied. “Plumtree followed Prudence up to her room, ostensibly to persuade her to support Harry. In reality, of course, he had a different goal in mind.”
Mrs. Weston grimaced. “How utterly wicked. But I wonder how he persuaded Prudence to drink such a dreadful concoction? She never imbibed spirits, according to those who knew her.”
“Unfortunately, her unfamiliarity with spirits probably worked against her,since she might not have recognized how strong it was. And Plumtree did state she was exceedingly upset—quite agitated, in fact. He convinced her that a glass of sherry would settle her nerves, so they could then talk and find an agreeable solution to the problem.” George’s expression became even grimmer.
“His powers of persuasion were successful. Once Prudence drank a glass of the doctored spirits, it probably took mere minutes before she was incapacitated—or at least unable to defend herself.”
A heavy silence fell over the room. Emma struggled to keep her emotions at bay—fury at the ugliness of it all, and sorrow for a young life so callously snuffed out.
John stirred first and put his arm around Isabella. “Are you all right, my dear? It’s an ugly tale.”
Isabella drew in a quavering breath. “I … I think so. But what a dreadful man. One can hardly believe it of him.”
At this point, Emma could almost believe Guy was indeed a lunatic. That a young man with so many advantages could do what he did defied all rational explanation.
“Harry was genuinely upset that night,” she said again. “He must truly have been fond of Prudence.”
“Not fond enough to take action against his accomplice,” George replied. “But Plumtree did admit that Harry was furious with him.”
Mr. Weston let out a disgusted snort. “Likely because it threatened to bring the whole rig down around their ears.”
“There is that,” admitted George.
Emma curled her hands into fists and knocked them together in frustration. “But why, George? Why was Guy involved with this in the first place? He’s the son of a wealthy squire, for heaven’s sake. How did he become mixed up with a criminal gang?”
“Bad seed from the start, I’d say,” opined Mr. Weston.
“That’s not much of an explanation, dear,” replied his wife.
“Good enough for me.”
Miss Bates shook her head. “I agree with Mrs. Knightley. It seems impossible that Guy could be a smuggler, much less a ruthless …” She stopped on a sigh.
“From what we could gather, it initially started off as a lark,” said George. “Plumtree met Harry quite by chance one day in—”
Emma put up a hand. “Let me guess. A tavern in Leatherhead.”
“Yes. As you know, Plumtree never had the opportunity to attend university, and was kept close at home by his parents. He greatly chafed against the restrictions they placed on him and was drawn to smuggling as a grand adventure. He came to enjoy it—so much so that he allowed Trotman to use Plumtree Manor as a depot along the route to London.”
“Good heavens,” exclaimed Mrs. Weston.
“Bad seed,” Mr. Weston tersely noted.
Emma frowned. “George, if the smugglers were able to use Plumtree Manor as a depot, then why Donwell, too?”
“You raise an excellent point, my dear. But ask yourself what changed in Guy Plumtree’s life in the last year.”
She thought for a moment. “His mother died and Squire Plumtree decided to spend most of his time at Plumtree Manor, rather than London.”
“Exactly. While his father was absent for much of the time, Plumtree was able to use an abandoned barn to store the contraband. Once his father returned to the manor, that became impossible. It was Plumtree’s suggestion that he and Harry transfer the operation to Donwell—which lined up nicely with my removal to Hartfield. ”
Emma shook her head. “Guy Plumtree is quite the evil genius for one so young.”
“The entire situation is a disgrace,” huffed Father. “I do not approve of those Plumtrees, Emma. I do hope we will never have to see any of them in the future.”
“No one approves of Guy Plumtree, dear,” she replied. “And I doubt the squire will wish to show his face in Highbury ever again.”
“He should have kept a better eye on his son,” Father sternly said. “I do hope John will never allow my grandchildren to run about unsupervised in such a manner.”
“I should think not,” John huffily replied. “And I take exception to the very suggestion that—”
Isabella jumped to her feet. “Dearest, your glass is empty. Let me fetch you another brandy.”
She snatched the glass—which was not empty—from her husband’s hand and hurried to the breakfront. Emma could sympathize with her sister’s reaction. It felt as if they’d spent the entire evening dodging one exploding shell of a surprise after another.
“George, I’m sure you and John are exhausted from this awful day,” she said. “But it’s a relief to finally know what happened.”
“I imagine there will be more information revealed at the trial,” he replied. “Phelps, our runner, will also be writing up a full report for me.” He reached over and gently pressed her arm. “You do realize you’ll have to testify at the trial.”
She sighed. “I suppose there’s no avoiding it.”
Father gasped. “George, I do not approve of Emma participating in trials. She seems to do quite too many of them. Courtrooms are always so unhealthy. Either they are too drafty or the air is very bad.”
“Yes, dear, it’s very inconvenient,” replied Emma in a consoling voice. “But George will take care of everything.”
“The trial won’t commence for some weeks,” said her husband. “In the meantime, I suggest we all try to resume our normal lives.”
Mr. Weston lifted his glass in salute. “Hear, hear. I’ve had quite enough of smugglers and madmen running about dear old Highbury.”
Miss Bates raised a timid hand. “I do have one more question, Mr. Knightley. If it’s not too much trouble.”
George smiled at her. “Of course not, ma’am.”
“I was wondering about poor Mr. Barlowe. He is innocent in all of this, is he not?”
“He is. Plumtree curried our vicar’s friendship simply to keep an eye on him, since the church had been used by the smuggling gang—a fact that Mr. Barlowe knew.”
Emma had completely forgotten about their vicar. “That reminds me. What about the lights in the bell tower some weeks back? Before the casks were removed and Mr. Clarke was attacked?”
“That, strangely enough, was Barlowe and Plumtree,” George replied.
“As he considered Plumtree a friend, Barlowe took the risk of showing him the casks, and asked for his help in removing them. Plumtree took great pleasure in refusing the request, piously claiming that he couldn’t involve himself in criminal activities.
Barlowe then asked Mrs. Stokes to help him with his predicament, which she kindly, if ill-advisedly, did. ”
Mrs. Weston tsked. “How disgraceful to treat Mr. Barlowe in so shabby a fashion.”
“At least he didn’t murder the vicar,” Mr. Weston sardonically replied.
“No more murders in Highbury,” Emma’s father said in a surprisingly stern tone. “I forbid it.”
Emma smiled at him. “I agree completely, Father. From now on, we will only have happy events.”
“Like your wedding, dear sir,” added Mrs. Weston with a smile.
Miss Bates clasped her hands together. “Oh, Mrs. Weston, one finds it hard to think happy thoughts after such a dreadful time. However will we manage a wedding?”
“You’re not to worry,” Emma stoutly said. “It will be just the antidote to all this dreariness.”
To think that she was now actually looking forward to the event, and it had only taken solving a murder and breaking up a smuggling ring to effect the change.
Father’s anxious expression eased into a tentative smile.
“I suppose we must begin making plans immediately, if such is the case.” Then he held up a minatory finger and wagged it at Emma.
“But, my dear, while you and Miss Bates should certainly plan whatever you wish, I insist there be no more investigations of nefarious activities, and no cake.”