Page 107 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

“I’m just getting to that, sir,” the coroner huffed.

He ponderously bent to reach into the basket on the floor, his stays creaking as he did so. Retrieving a package, he placed it on the table next to Mr. Clarke.

“Do you recognize that item?” asked Dr. Hughes.

The agent inspected it. “I believe it’s from the same shipment that was abandoned a few weeks ago, just outside Dorking. Along with a unit of dragoons, I was in pursuit of the aforementioned gang. The smugglers dropped their goods as they made their escape, and we were able to retrieve some of the packages.”

“Only some?” the coroner queried.

“As it was a moonless night, it was difficult to ascertain whether the entire load was dumped.”

“But you’re surethisparticular packet is from that load.”

“Yes, because it’s wrapped and tied in an identical fashion.” He sniffed the packet. “Same tobacco too, unless my nose fails me.”

Dr. Hughes walked over to the jury with the packet. “This is one of two packages found under the floor of Mr. Larkins’s cottage, along with the items belonging to Miss Parr.”

There was a commotion at the end of the front row. Emma leaned out to see Mr. Parr drop his head into his hands. His sons, looking anguished, tried to console him.

Dr. Hughes cast the family a sympathetic glance before returning to the front of the room.

“Mr. Clarke,” he said. “Given this evidence, would it be reasonable to assume that Mr. Larkins is part of the smuggling gang you’ve been pursuing?”

Emma had to tamp down a flare of outrage on Larkins’s behalf. Her father, however, felt no such compunction.

“That is a dreadful assumption to make about poor Larkins,” he announced to Miss Bates. “I do not approve of Dr. Hughes asking such a leading question.”

The coroner shot a baleful glare their way. Father, as usual, was oblivious.

Mr. Clarke regarded the coroner with unimpeded calm. “Without further evidence, I cannot speak to your question about involvement in the gang. All I can say is that he was in receipt of contraband goods. While that of course is illegal, it’s not an unusual state of affairs anywhere in England.”

Dr. Hughes looked nonplussed by that reply. “Er, yes, just as you say. Does the jury have any questions for Mr. Clarke?”

Mr. Weston glanced at the other members of the jury, who all shook their heads. “We do not, Dr. Hughes.”

“Very well. Mr. Clarke, you are excused.”

The imperturbable agent rose from his chair and made his way to the back of the room, ignoring the blatant curiosity of the crowd.

Dr. Hughes then noted that the only thing left at this point was the coroner’s summation to the jury. With his usual pomposity, he proceeded to review the evidence in excruciating detail. Then he postulated two theories as to why Prudence had been murdered, both of which cast Larkins in a very bad light. Emma considered it most unseemly that the coroner would choose to speculate as to the motive behind a possible murder, rather than sticking to the evidence at hand.

First, the dratted man speculated that Prudence had been murdered for spurning a lovelorn suitor. Even though Emma had suspected that could have been the case with William Cox, hearing Dr. Hughes outline the particulars of that theory made her realize how thin it was. She’d seen Prudence’s room herself. Aside from the open window, there’d been little sign of disturbance and not one that suggested a desperate struggle.

The coroner’s second theory was directly tied to smuggling, suggesting that the killer was indeed part of a smuggling gang. Dr. Hughes postulated that Prudence had somehow discovered that her murderer was involved in this criminal endeavor, and for some reason had confronted him. In so doing, she’d sealed her own fate.

Emma reluctantly admitted that the second theory was a great deal more plausible than the first. Prudence had obviously been murdered, and smuggling was indeed taking place in the environs of Donwell. But how, exactly, had the girl’s life intersected with the activities of the shadowy gang? It was a question begging to be answered, not left to vague speculations.

Once Dr. Hughes finished his summation, he sent the jury off to begin deliberations. Most people in the room quickly came to their feet, thankful for the opportunity to move about. Emma did the same, and contemplated going for a short walk down the high street. The room had grown almost unbearably stuffy and, this late in the day, odiferous as well.

Emma’s father touched her arm. “I’m going to escort Miss Bates back to Hartfield. She is most distressed by the dreadful accusations made against poor Mr. Larkins.”

“You mustn’t worry about me, sir,” Miss Bates earnestly exclaimed. “Although I am indeed terribly shocked by what has been said about Mr. Larkins. I’ve never met a gentler person than Mr. Larkins—excepting you, Mr. Knightley, and of course my dear Mr. Woodhouse. Oh, and dear Mr. Weston, who has always been so generous to Mother and me. But I grow quite faint at the very notion of Mr. Larkins locked away in that hideous gaol. However will he survive?”

Emma was a great deal more concerned about Larkins escaping the gallows than surviving the gaol.

“There’s no need for either of you to stay,” she said to her father. “I’ll return home as soon as the verdict is rendered.”

“Very well, my dear. But do not linger. I heard someone cough only a few minutes ago.”