Page 130 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

“I’m so sorry, Harriet. How long has this been going on?”

“For a year.”

“And I take it your friend’s husband hasn’t reported this to anyone?”

Harriet shook her head. “He’s too frightened. And he’s afraid the revenue agents might blame him, because the smugglers insisted on paying him. He thinks it makes him look guilty.”

Itwouldmake him look guilty, which was no doubt the gang’s intent. Beat the man into compliance and then make it appear as if he were a willing participant.

“Why did your friend come to you now?” Emma asked.

“Because things are getting worse. The smugglers are demanding that her husband start storing even more goods they bring from their runs, and more frequently. She thinks something’s gone wrong.” Harriet twirled a hand. “With the smugglers, I mean. That something happened to their normal route, and now they have to use my friend’s farm to store even more contraband.”

Emma thought for a moment. “Perhaps the smugglers lost access to one of their other storage depots.”

Like the bell tower of a church.

“Or,” she thoughtfully added, “they had to shift their normal route because someone like Mr. Clarke was getting too close.”

“All she knows is that something has changed.”

Emma studied her friend. “Harriet, why did she come to you, specifically?”

“She knows you are my friend, Mrs. Knightley. She … she thought you could do something.”

“Because I’m married to the local magistrate?”

Harriet gave her a sheepish smile.

“I understand,” said Emma, “but it’s not much to go on.”

“I’m sorry, but I did promise her,” Harriet unhappily replied. “I can’t break my promise.”

“I know, dear. I’ll think of something.”

Her friend looked dubious.

Emma tapped her knee, pondering the situation. As it was, going to George with this information wouldn’t be terribly useful. There were a great many farms and tenant farmers within the surrounding parishes. Trying to identify the correct one, while not quite a needle in a haystack would still be a monumental task, especially if the farmer was too frightened to talk.

Then a piece of the puzzle suddenly clicked into place.

“I have it,” she exclaimed. “We need to speak to a farmer.”

Harriet blinked. “Why?”

“Given the predilection of smugglers to use farms as storage depots, it’s reasonable to assume that other farmers in the area have also been coerced into working with the gang. Or, at least, have been approached by them.”

“Are you saying we should try to find farmers who might be working with the smugglers?” Harriet asked in a skeptical tone. “I don’t think Robert would like that. He takes a very dim view of smugglers and won’t have anything to do with them.”

“I’m not suggesting we do anything dangerous. Iamsuggesting that we speak to the one person who knows more about what goes on in our local farming community than anyone else. Even more than my husband.”

Energized, Emma jumped to her feet. “Come along, Harriet. I’ll walk you home. That person lives on the way.”

A quick walk to Riverwatch Farm took them just down a tidy lane off the village high street. No one in Highbury knew the local farming community better than Farmer Mitchell. He was also an intelligent, thoughtful man whose opinion was very much worth considering. If anyone could elucidate the mystery of smugglers preying on local farmers, it would be he.

As they turned into the drive, Mr. Mitchell must have spotted them, because he came hurrying down from the farmhouse to meet them.

“Mrs. Knightley, Mrs. Martin,” he exclaimed. “It’s a cold day to be walking about the village. Come inside to the parlor before you catch yourself a chill.”