Page 137 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

“That’s excellent, but there’s more.”

His dark eyebrows went up. “Really?”

“Yes. Harriet stopped by this morning with somequitealarming information. Oh, and then there’s William Cox.”

He sighed. “Good Lord. I’ve only been gone three days, Emma.”

She wrinkled her nose in sympathy. “I know. It’s a lot to take in, dearest.”

As she related the details she’d alluded to, George’s expression grew ever more troubled.

“If it was just as William said,” Emma finished, “one might conclude that the smugglers were merely passing by Highbury or Donwell on their way to London, and that no one in the parish was involved to any real degree. However, from what Dick Curtis told us, that’s probably not the case.”

George slowly shook his head. “It’s a great shame that Harriet cannot give us the name of her friend.”

“I cannot ask her to break her promise. Her friend is very frightened, and one cannot blame her.”

George fell to pondering for several moments before rising and pulling her up. “I think a chat with Mr. Barlowe is the first thing in order.”

“What, now?”

“No time like the present.”

“Do you wish me to go with you, then?”

Her husband regarded her with a sardonic eye. “Can I stop you?”

She smiled. “I suppose you could lock me in our bedroom.”

“And you would pick the lock.”

As he led her from the room, Emma decided she’d quite like to learn how to pick a lock. Given the events of the past few weeks, such a skill might come in handy.

Mr. Barlowe seemed to crumple before their eyes. Since George had just threatened to haul him in front of a revenue agent, the curate’s reaction wasn’t surprising.

“I swear, Mr. Knightley,” he pleaded, “I had nothing to do with it. The smugglers were using the bell tower for storage long before I arrived in Highbury.”

Emma exchanged an astonished glance with George.

“Truly?” she asked Mr. Barlowe.

He bobbed his head like a demented peahen. “I’ll tell you everything I know, which isn’t really very much. As long as you don’t haul me in front of a revenue agent, that is.”

What little color remained in his face drained away. Emma didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone go so pale before—at least while still alive.

“And please don’t tell the bishop,” he added. “I’ll never get another position.”

“Who and what I tell depends entirely on you,” George sternly replied.

They were sitting in the main drawing room of the vicarage— a very cold drawing room, since Mr. Barlowe declined to build a fire. Given his initial reluctance to speak with them, he’d probably hoped to freeze them out and send them on their way.

He’d certainly been surprised to see them and had only reluctantly invited them into the vicarage. The curate had initially denied any strange doings in the church’s bell tower, while also vowing that he knew nothing about smugglers. It wasn’t until George donned his magistrate’s persona and threatened him with legal action that the man had cracked.

And thank goodness for that, because Emma was exceedingly tired of being cold. Solving a murder and rousting a smuggling ring in the middle of January was not for the faint of heart.

George speared Mr. Barlowe with a stern gaze. “How do you know the smuggling activity predated your appearance in Highbury?”

“The vicarage cook told me. She said that the vicar before Mr. Elton was the one who started it all.”