Page 102 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

George tipped up her chin and gave her a brief kiss. “I have no doubt you will manage everything with your usual aplomb.”

Emma eyed the drinks trolley as she contemplated life for the foreseeable future. “I think I’ll take that second sherry now, George.”

And make it a generous one, at that.

CHAPTER20

Emma’s father turned a severe gaze on their surroundings. The ballroom of the Crown Inn had once more been transformed into a courtroom for the coroner’s inquest.

“I object to participating in yet another one of these unpleasant exercises,” he groused. “For one thing, it is a breeding ground for contagion. Dr. Hughes has much to answer for in that regard.”

“Because Mr. Larkins was arrested for murder, a coroner’s inquest was required by law,” Emma replied. “I’m afraid there’s no avoiding it.”

Father then turned his ire on another favorite object of scorn. “That Sharpe person seems to think he can go about arresting people, regardless of how the rest of us think. I donotapprove.”

Emma glanced toward the coroner’s table, only a few feet away from where they sat in the front row. The constable stood behind it, scowling ferociously at them.

“Mr. Sharpe is right there,” she whispered. “He can hear you.”

Undeterred, her father continued. “Youwould make a better constable, my dear. Certainly you would never go about arresting innocent people at the drop of a hat.”

Miss Bates, sitting on his other side, leaned forward. “Indeed, Mrs. Knightley. You possess such keen intelligence. You would make a splendid constable.”

Emma had to smile. “I doubt Mr. Knightley would approve. Nor can I see myself lurking about the village in the dead of night, lantern and staff at the ready to apprehend villains.”

Her father gasped. “Emma, recall the danger you faced last summer when Mrs. Elton was murdered. You must promise never to put yourself in danger again!”

“Father, I was simply making a little joke.”

“You mustn’t joke about murder, my dear. People might misinterpret your meaning.”

She sighed. “Yes, Father.”

Fortunately, Miss Bates diverted his attention by speaking of her latest letter from Jane Churchill.

Three days had passed since Larkins’s arrest. Dr. Hughes, assisted by George, had quickly assembled a jury and convened the inquest. At the moment, the jury was on a break after a long morning of witness testimony. While the jury had retired to another room, most everyone else—a large turnout of locals— had remained and were stretching their legs or consuming their lunches, all while avidly gossiping about the proceedings.

Sadly, the inquest was generally viewed as a form of entertainment by some, who then acted accordingly—sometimes even loudly offering opinions, much to the annoyance of Dr. Hughes. To think Emma had once considered Frank Churchill’s secret betrothal to Jane Fairfax the height of drama. Now, Highbury had been the scene of not one buttwomurders, and might be a hotbed of smuggling as well.

Mrs. Weston tapped her shoulder from behind.

“Emma, are you well?” she asked in a low voice.

Forcing a smile, Emma turned in her seat. “I’m fine. Just impatient with the delay.”

“This break does seem rather long,” Mrs. Weston replied. “Most of the witnesses gave their testimony this morning.”

Emma and George had both testified, as had Father and Miss Bates. It had taken a great deal of persuasion on George’s part to convince Father that he was required to appear as a witness. Father had seen it as a great affront to his dignity and had made a point of expressing that opinion on the stand, much to the amusement of the locals. At least his testimony had been to the point, unlike that of Miss Bates. The poor woman had tried her best to be helpful, but she’d buried the coroner under her usual avalanche of words.

The one person who would not be called as a witness was William Larkins. Since he’d already been remanded for murder, his testimony was deemed unreliable. Emma and George had done their best to discount the evidence against their steward, but even she had to admit it was incriminating.

Even worse were the testimonies given by Mrs. Hodges and Harry. Both were clearly reluctant witnesses, and their statements had been damning. Mrs. Hodges had been forced to confirm the bloodstained mobcap as belonging to Prudence, and Harry—in his usual awkward fashion—had alleged that Larkins cherished tender feelings for the girl. Dr. Hughes had then asked if Prudence returned those feelings. Harry had squirmed a bit before admitting that he believed such was not the case.

Those observations by the staff had elicited a great deal of murmuring from the crowd. Clearly, many were drawing the disastrous conclusion that Prudence’s death had been at the hands of a spurned lover. Knowing Larkins as they did, most of the villagers should have rejected such a ridiculous conclusion but, unfortunately, that now seemed a faint hope.

Hearing a stir at the back of the room, Emma turned to see three men enter, their coats dusted with snow. Two were so alike they could only be brothers. The other man, although of a strong and upright bearing, was much older. His hair was liberally sprinkled with gray and his complexion was weather-beaten and worn.

“Prudence’s father and brothers, I believe,” Emma said to Mrs. Weston. “That’s who we’ve been waiting for. They had to travel from Leatherhead.”