Page 127 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

“I beg your pardon?”

“Old pews, Mrs. Knightley. They were stored in the loft. I had them taken away by a scrap dealer, which is why the floor is marked up.”

“I see. And when was this?”

“Last week. I do not remember the day.”

“Do you remember the name of this scrap dealer?”

He scowled. “Of course not. He was an itinerant peddler.”

“Ah.” That was a convenient answer.

“Did you see any lights or sign of activity in the bell tower last night?” she went on to ask.

“Of course not.”

“But surely you heard something,” put in Miss Bates. “Poor Mr. Clarke was attacked, and apparently quite viciously. Did you not hear sounds of a struggle or a call for help?”

“No,” he huffily replied. “If I had, you may be sure I would have done something.”

Emma decided to press him. “Mr. Barlowe, do you think it’s possible that smugglers were using the bell loft to store their contraband goods?”

He stumbled backward, slightly banging his elbow into the church door. Muttering, he rubbed it while continuing to glare at her. “With all due respect, that is a ridiculous notion. I would certainly be aware if smugglers were using my church. Besides, Constable Sharpe has already determined that Mr. Clarke was the unfortunate victim of a robbery.”

Emma made a skeptical noise. “In the churchyard, in the middle of the night? That seems very odd, especially for Highbury.”

“You may ask the constable yourself, or even Mr. Clarke.”

“And how is he?” asked Miss Bates.

“Very poorly, I’m afraid. The villains were harsh with him.”

Emma raised her eyebrows. “So there was more than one villain?”

The curate seemed to mentally freeze for a moment before recovering himself. “Apparently, although Mr. Clarke was hazy on the details. He took a blow to the head, so his memory is impaired.”

“But he remembered there was more than one attacker?” Emma clarified.

“I … yes, I believe so.”

“And what led Constable Sharpe to conclude it was a robbery and not smugglers? After all, Mr. Clarke is a prevention agent. Why else would he be in the churchyard in the middle of the night?”

Miss Bates gave a vigorous nod. “Very true, Mrs. Knightley. It’s most wicked, of course, but storing contraband in churches does happen, as you know. My father told us once of a church in Chiddingfold where smugglers stored their goods. In the attic, you understand, without the vicar’s knowledge. The poor man was giving his Sunday sermon when one of the casks— quite a large one, apparently—fell through the ceiling and smashed into the middle of the aisle. Thankfully, no one was injured, but it took weeks to get rid of the odor of brandy.”

“Oh dear,” Emma said, stifling an impulse to laugh.

“And when you were snooping, did you find any brandy in the loft?” the curate angrily demanded.

Emma’s fleeting amusement vanished. “There’s no need to be rude, sir. We’re simply asking reasonable questions.”

“Then I suggest you address them to Constable Sharpe,” he retorted. “As I said, he feels certain the villains were thieves. After all, Mr. Clarke’s billfold and watch were missing.”

Emma shrugged. “That could simply mean they were both thievesandsmugglers.”

“Mrs. Knightley, I would again ask you—”

“Ho, Barlowe,” called a friendly voice. “At last I find you.”