Page 126 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

Miss Bates peered down at the floor. “But only partway.”

“Yes. I would guess it was then picked up and carried.”

“But what could it have been?”

Emma thought for a few moments. “A small cask or casks, perhaps?”

“You mean spirits?” Miss Bates replied, aghast.

“Or tea, possibly.”

“Mrs. Knightley, how dreadful! To think my father’s dear little church could be used in such a sinful manner.” Then she blinked. “And what of Mr. Barlowe? He couldn’t possibly know about this, could he?”

“That is the question,” Emma replied.

Further perusal verified there was nothing more to see, so she ushered Miss Bates down the winding staircase. They’d almost reached the bottom when they heard quick footsteps coming from the back of the church. Miss Bates froze, as did Emma. She mentally crossed her fingers hoping that whoever it was hadn’t heard them.

But the door at the bottom of the staircase suddenly flew open to reveal the curate. Mr. Barlowe gaped at them for a moment before his expression transformed into a scowl.

Of all the bad luck… .

“Mr. Barlowe,” Emma exclaimed in a dementedly bright voice. “What a surprise.”

“I might say the same, ma’am,” he blustered. “What could you be doing up in the bell tower?”

She scrambled to come up with a plausible excuse, but was forestalled by Miss Bates.

“My dear sir, we heard about the terrible events of last night. So shocking! We were on our way to call on Mr. Perry, to ask him to check on poor Mr. Clarke. Our dear Perry could no doubt be of great service to Mr. Clarke in his time of trial.”

“I can assure you that Mr. Perry is not up in the bell tower,” Barlowe frostily replied.

Emma sighed, resigned to telling the unfortunate truth. “We heard reports of lights in the tower last night at about the time Mr. Clarke was attacked. I thought it might be useful to have a look around so I could report back to my husband when he returns from London.”

Mr. Barlowe went still as death. His complexion suddenly mimicked a rather good imitation of a corpse, too.

“Is something wrong, sir?” Emma asked.

He made an effort to recover himself. “It certainly is. You are snooping about my church, where you have no business.”

“Sir, I don’t mean to criticize,” Miss Bates apologetically said, “but my father was in the habit of leaving the church open as much as possible when he was vicar. He encouraged people to spend time in here, and the children quite enjoyed climbing up to the bell tower, back in his day.”

“That may be so, butIdo not leave the church open.”

“Someone must have,” Emma said, crossing her fingers behind her back. “How else would we have gotten in?”

Miss Bates made a slight choking noise but held her peace.

“Be that as it may, I would ask you to leave now,” the curate impatiently replied.

He then shooed them out of the building as if they were a pair of obstreperous geese, and made a point of locking the door before turning back to them.

“I hope your curiosity was satisfied, Mrs. Knightley,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

Emma shot up a hand. “Just a quick question, Mr. Barlowe. We noticed some odd scrape marks in the belfry that looked recent. I have to wonder what could have left such marks.”

His lips pressed into a thin, reluctant line. Emma simply smiled and waited him out.

“Pews,” he tersely replied.