Page 118 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

Thank God.

“Are any of the smugglers from Highbury?”

“No. I never saw them before I …” He grimaced. “You know.”

“Began smuggling.”

“It really wasn’t for that long,” he miserably said. “And like I said, I didn’t go on that many runs. It started off as a lark, just as you said, but then it began to feel dangerous. I didn’t want anything more to do with it after that.”

“How did you get involved in the first place?” asked Emma. “Where did you meet those men?”

“In a tavern in Kingston-on-Thames. I used to meet a few friends from London there, now and again.”

“I told your father those London friends of yours were a bad influence,” his mother bitterly said. “Your friends in Highbury weren’t good enough, I suppose.”

William grimaced. “Mama, you’re embarrassing me.”

“I think we’re well beyond that,” Emma noted. “You met those men in a tavern. And they convinced you to join their smuggling ring.”

“Not the first time I saw them. They just seemed like bangup fellows, and we fell to talking. So I met them again a few times after that.”

“What are their names?”

“Dick and Bill Smith. They’re brothers.” Then he frowned. “Although they didn’t look like brothers at all, come to think of it.”

Emma resisted the impulse to whack him with her reticule. Was it really possible for someone to be so stupid?

“I doubt those were their real names. I presume you can identify the tavern, though.”

He gave her a hesitant smile. “Oh, yes. I can do that, at least.”

Emma waited. “And?”

“Oh, um, it’s the Eagle and the Hare.”

“Thank you. Now, how did they convince you to participate in these activities?”

“Because I was stupid,” he said with a sigh. “They made it sound like it was such a jolly. Like everyone did it, and there was nothing dangerous about it. And also a bang-up way to make extra blunt.”

Miss Bates tilted her head like an inquisitive wren. “What’s blunt?”

“Money,” Emma said. “Did they also pay you in goods?”

“Yes. Tea, mostly, and a bottle of brandy every now and again.”

“But you told us you got those nice things from your friends in … in London,” hiccupped Susan.

He grimaced, while his mother simply sighed. Clearly, the Cox family hadn’t bothered to question too closely why their son was able to bring home such largesse.

“All right,” Emma said. “Tell me exactly what you did and how it worked.”

In a halting tone, William explained that he occasionally went on the runs for about six months. Mostly, he helped transport small casks of spirits along the abandoned roads or deserted trails that intersected this part of Surrey, trails that ran up from the coast on their way to London. The contraband goods were usually hidden in abandoned sheds or occasionally in barns— sometimes with the cooperation of the farmers, sometimes not.

“That’s when I became worried,” he confessed. “Most of the farmers turned a blind eye, but there were a few who didn’t and, well, the smugglers threatened them.”

“How, exactly?” Emma asked.

“They told one fellow they’d burn down his barn. And … and worse.”