Page 13 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

“Miss Bates, Emma,” her father called from across the library. “What is happening?”

“Just a minute, Father.” Emma refocused on Miss Bates. “So you heard the thud. Then what?”

“It was quite loud, Mrs. Knightley. At first I thought a bird—an owl or a hawk, perhaps—had flown into the doorframe. They do that sometimes, you know. They are drawn to the light and grow confused. Your father didn’t think that could possibly be right, so I decided to look. While he wanted me to ring for a footman, I didn’t wish to bother anyone. Now I wish I had.” She ended on an unhappy note.

“It was very brave of you,” Emma said in a comforting tone. “So, you went to investigate this noise, and …”

“I opened the door and looked out. At first I saw nothing. So I opened the doors wide and looked all around. That’s … that’s when I saw … saw Prudence. Although of course I didn’t realize it was she, at first. I could only tell it was a body.”

Emma thought for a moment. “You didn’t hear anything else before the thud? A cry, perhaps?”

“No. I think that’s why I was so … so brave as to go out and look in the first place. It never occurred to me that it would be so horrible. Oh, Mrs. Knightley, what are we to do?”

“Ring for help.” She glanced over at her father and Mrs. Bates, huddled under lap blankets and shawls. “But first let me build up the fire.”

She crossed the room, Miss Bates scurrying in her wake.

“Emma, what are we to do?” Father plaintively asked.

She retrieved the tongs from the firebox. “I’m going to get help, dear.”

“But that poor girl! We mustn’t leave her out in that perishing cold.”

“A few more minutes won’t make a difference. Please don’t worry.”

“I cannot help but worry,” he replied as she placed the log into the flames. “You and Miss Bates were out on the terrace for such a long time. We grew quite afraid, didn’t we, Mrs. Bates? What if you and Miss Bates were to come down with a putrid fever as a result?”

“We were both wearing very warm shawls. We’ll be fine.”

Miss Bates, who had been attending to her mother, glanced over her shoulder. “There is no need to worry about me, sir. I am quite robust. And Mrs. Knightley never gets sick, you know.”

Will wonders never cease?

Miss Bates was showing uncommon fortitude. Under the circumstances, it was a welcome development.

Once she got the fire going strong, Emma slipped behind her husband’s desk to yank the bellpull. “Father, someone will arrive soon to stay with you. Once they do, I should go find George.”

He reached out a hand. “Please don’t leave, Emma. What if Isabella were to return? Anyone could come into the library at any moment.”

The Bates ladies also fastened pleading gazes on her. Emma longed to find George and pass this burden over to him, but heaven only knew what Miss Bates or her father would say if a guest wandered in to chat. This situation needed careful handling.

“Then I’ll stay right here with you,” she said. “In the meantime, I think you could all do with a glass of sherry to warm you up. How would that be?”

She spoke in a normal voice, hoping to inject a note of calm. It seemed to work, because her father gave her a tentative smile.

“That would be most welcome,” he said. “For Miss Bates as well, I imagine.”

“And me,” added Mrs. Bates in her quavering voice.

Mrs. Bates, who wasveryelderly, rarely touched anything but the occasional thimbleful of ratafia. Then again, it wasn’t every day that one heard a body crashing to its death outside the window.

Emma poured three small wineglasses of sherry from the drinks trolley. Since each of them would no doubt be required to give a witness statement, it wouldn’t do for them to get tipsy.

She carried a silver tray with the drinks back to the little group huddled around the fire. After handing them out, she watched with astonishment as Mrs. Bates downed her sherry in one go.

“Gracious,” Miss Bates said in a faint tone.

The elderly woman handed her glass back to Emma.