Page 11 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

Her friend twinkled at her. “He would have found his way there eventually, but your assistance was appreciated nonetheless.”

“As is right and proper. But look at Mr. Hughes, who is almost as boring as his cousin, and he’s trapped poor Mr. Weston behind the table. Don’t you think you should rescue your husband? Dr. Hughes is bound to appear at any moment and join them, and then Mr. Weston will become desperate.”

Mrs. Weston laughed. “Emma, Dr. Hughes is a very good man—if a trifle pompous. It was kind of you to invite him.”

“Miss Bates was in charge of the invitations, with the predictable result that almost everyone within a five-mile radius of Highbury has descended upon us like marauding Saxons. Now, go rescue your husband.”

For the next half hour, Emma circled the room, checking on the partygoers and even managing a cup of punch and a pleasant chat with Mrs. Goddard. Now, though, it was past time to check on her father and Isabella.

Slipping into the relative quiet of the long gallery—thankfully absent of Coxes—she turned toward the library. The noise of the party faded, and she found herself enjoying the welcome peace of the old stone building after enduring the commotion of the hall.

She’d almost reached the library when the door flew open and Miss Bates burst forth in a frantic flurry of skirts. The spinster all but skidded to a halt in front of her.

“Miss Bates,” Emma exclaimed. “Whatever is the matter?”

The little spinster flapped her arms like a duck about to take flight. “Oh, Mrs. Knightley, you must come! There’s been a terrible accident!”

CHAPTER3

Emma’s mind cast up a terrifying image. “Is it Father? Is he ill?”

Miss Bates grabbed her arm, tugging her through the door. “It’s not your father. It’s … oh, Mrs. Knightley, please come. It’s the most dreadful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Emma allowed Miss Bates to propel her into the room—a room even chillier than the old stone corridors of the abbey. The doors to the terrace were wide open, their thick velvet curtains flapping in the gusty night air.

She darted a glance toward the fireplace, where she’d settled her father and the ladies earlier in the evening. Father had flung off his lap blanket and come to his feet, supporting a wideawake and obviously distressed Mrs. Bates.

“Dearest,” Emma exclaimed. “Why are you and Mrs. Bates standing about with the doors open? It’s freezing in here.”

She took the elderly woman by the arm to steer her back to her wingback, but her father waved her away.

“Emma, you must go outside and look! It is too dreadful for words.”

“I will, just as soon as I get Mrs. Bates settled. And you must also sit under your blanket.”

Miss Bates appeared at her side. “Let me take care of Mother and your father. You go outside.”

Emma glanced at her with some surprise. The spinster had always reminded her of a little sparrow, flitting here and there with great cheer but prone to bouts of nerves during moments of great upset. Now, though, she seemed to have recovered her equanimity as she took her mother’s arm and helped her to resume her seat in front of the marble-topped fireplace.

When Father sank into his chair and took up the lap blanket in trembling hands, a grim premonition seized Emma. She drew in a slow, calming breath, and then she strode toward the open doors.

“Wait.” Miss Bates snatched a wool shawl draped over the back of a chair—it looked like Isabella’s—and rushed to give it to her. “You’ll perish in that light gown, Mrs. Knightley.”

Emma wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and picked up a lamp from one of the side tables. “All right. Now, let us go see.”

They stepped onto the wide stone terrace that faced the back gardens.

The garden furniture was stored away until spring, so the terrace was bare. In the fitful light of the lamp, a thin layer of frost glittered on the gray stones. The garden looked as it always did at this time of year—the trees with their leafless branches reaching like spindly arms to the sky, and the flower beds empty save for the boxwoods and the rose bushes cut back for winter.

All was silent but for the faint drift of music from the other end of the abbey.

Emma held the lamp up higher. The light dazzled her, but once her vision adjusted she saw nothing but the inkblot lawn stretching away into the darkness.

“Miss Bates, what am I supposed to see?”

Wordlessly, the spinster pointed over to the left.

Emma turned and almost dropped the lamp. The body of a woman lay on the stones, limbs splayed out in a terrible fashion.