Page 131 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

“You sound just like my father,” Emma teased.

Farmer Mitchell cast her a shrewd glance. “I’ll wager Mr. Woodhouse doesn’t know you’re out strolling country lanes with Mrs. Martin.”

She tapped the side of her nose. “Then let’s keep it our little secret, shall we?”

He returned her smile as he ushered them through the front door.

Riverwatch Farm was a tidy, prosperous establishment with an excellent dairy that produced cheeses much in demand throughout the district. The Mitchells had resided in Highbury for several generations, and the farmhouse reflected its age in a hodgepodge of shapes and styles. But it was in excellent repair, and the furnishings, though not particularly stylish, were of good quality and just what one would expect of a respectable farming family.

“My missus is away for the afternoon,” said Mr. Mitchell, “but if you ladies will take a seat in the parlor, I’m sure I can rustle up a decent sort of tea.”

“Thank you, but no,” said Emma. “Unless Harriet would like some tea.”

Her friend smiled. “I’m fine. I’ll have tea when I return home.”

Emma took one of the low armchairs by the fireplace, and was immediately grateful for the crackling blaze. With a sigh, Harriet eased down onto the well-cushioned sofa opposite.

Farmer Mitchell planted his burly form between them, a slight expression of puzzlement marking his genial features. “Then how can I be of service this day?”

Emma hesitated. “It’s rather a delicate subject, so I’m not sure—”

“It’s about the smugglers,” Harriet blurted out. “And how they’ve been threatening people.”

So much for delicacy.

Then again, that was Harriet. Tact was not one of the dear girl’s strong points, even when caution was the order of the day.

If Farmer Mitchell was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, he calmly took a seat in an old leather armchair next to Emma. “Can I ask why you’re talking to me instead of Mr. Knightley or Constable Sharpe?”

Emma gave him a look. “I rather think you can guess why we’re not going to Constable Sharpe.”

Mr. Mitchell snorted. Due to some of the events surrounding last year’s investigation into the murder of Mrs. Elton, he had as low an opinion of the constable as she did.

“My husband is currently in London,” Emma added. “Besides, the person who is being threatened is a farmer.”

“So you thought to talk to a farmer about it, I reckon.”

Emma opened her hands. “You know every farmer in the area, Mr. Mitchell, and I’m quite certain you’re not involved in any smuggling operations.”

His lips twitched. “Sure of that, are you?”

“I most certainly am.”

“Then you’d best tell me what it’s about, and I’ll see if I can help.”

Emma glanced at Harriet, who related the tale she’d told earlier. Mr. Mitchell asked a few questions but mostly held his peace, listening with a thoughtful frown.

“I’m sorry to hear of such goings-on right here in Highbury,” he said when Harriet had finished. “But smugglers have been running up from the coast for as long as anyone in these parts can remember, often using the abandoned Roman roads. I remember flaskers and freetraders doing their runs right past Highbury when I was a boy.”

Harriet tilted her head. “What’s a flasker?”

“A freetrader who runs liquor.”

“It appears you’re not surprised to hear that smugglers are operating near or in Highbury,” Emma said.

He thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “Maybe I am a bit. There’s not been much activity this close to the village in years—not till that dustup with poor Mr. Larkins. If the freetraders have been operating in our vicinity, they’ve kept it mighty close to the vest.”

Emma leaned forward. “So, you don’t believe Larkins is a smuggler, either.”