Page 165 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

“He’s a good man for all that,” Mrs. Weston gently corrected. “One cannot help but feel for him.”

“And his son is the opposite of blustering,” Emma noted. “He’s the proverbial snake in the garden. But, George, we saw Prudence’s room and there was no evidence of a struggle. How did Guy manage to avoid it?”

“Ah, that was because he dosed her with one hundred proof spirits.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Mr. Weston. “That’s awful.”

“I don’t understand,” Emma said with a frown. “What does that mean?”

“One never drinks any spirit—brandy, port, or gin—in a pure distillation,” Mr. Weston replied. “It’s always watered down in order to make it palatable and safe. If one were to drink one hundred percent alcohol, one could become insensible very quickly. If one drank enough, it could even be lethal.”

Emma pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling slightly queasy. “It was Guy who filched the decanter of sherry from the drawing room, wasn’t it? He doctored it with spirits and fed it to Prudence, knowing it would render her unconscious— or even kill her.”

“Correct,” George replied. “Plumtree followed Prudence up to her room, ostensibly to persuade her to support Harry. In reality, of course, he had a different goal in mind.”

Mrs. Weston grimaced. “How utterly wicked. But I wonder how he persuaded Prudence to drink such a dreadful concoction? She never imbibed spirits, according to those who knew her.”

“Unfortunately, her unfamiliarity with spirits probably worked against her,since she might not have recognized how strong it was. And Plumtree did state she was exceedingly upset—quite agitated, in fact. He convinced her that a glass of sherry would settle her nerves, so they could then talk and find an agreeable solution to the problem.” George’s expression became even grimmer. “His powers of persuasion were successful. Once Prudence drank a glass of the doctored spirits, it probably took mere minutes before she was incapacitated—or at least unable to defend herself.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Emma struggled to keep her emotions at bay—fury at the ugliness of it all, and sorrow for a young life so callously snuffed out.

John stirred first and put his arm around Isabella. “Are you all right, my dear? It’s an ugly tale.”

Isabella drew in a quavering breath. “I … I think so. But what a dreadful man. One can hardly believe it of him.”

At this point, Emma could almost believe Guy was indeed a lunatic. That a young man with so many advantages could do what he did defied all rational explanation.

“Harrywasgenuinely upset that night,” she said again. “He must truly have been fond of Prudence.”

“Not fond enough to take action against his accomplice,” George replied. “But Plumtree did admit that Harry was furious with him.”

Mr. Weston let out a disgusted snort. “Likely because it threatened to bring the whole rig down around their ears.”

“There is that,” admitted George.

Emma curled her hands into fists and knocked them together in frustration. “Butwhy, George? Why was Guy involved with this in the first place? He’s the son of a wealthy squire, for heaven’s sake. How did he become mixed up with a criminal gang?”

“Bad seed from the start, I’d say,” opined Mr. Weston.

“That’s not much of an explanation, dear,” replied his wife.

“Good enough for me.”

Miss Bates shook her head. “I agree with Mrs. Knightley. It seems impossible that Guy could be a smuggler, much less a ruthless …” She stopped on a sigh.

“From what we could gather, it initially started off as a lark,” said George. “Plumtree met Harry quite by chance one day in—”

Emma put up a hand. “Let me guess. A tavern in Leatherhead.”

“Yes. As you know, Plumtree never had the opportunity to attend university, and was kept close at home by his parents. He greatly chafed against the restrictions they placed on him and was drawn to smuggling as a grand adventure. He came to enjoy it—so much so that he allowed Trotman to use Plumtree Manor as a depot along the route to London.”

“Good heavens,” exclaimed Mrs. Weston.

“Bad seed,” Mr. Weston tersely noted.

Emma frowned. “George, if the smugglers were able to use Plumtree Manor as a depot, then why Donwell, too?”

“You raise an excellent point, my dear. But ask yourself what changed in Guy Plumtree’s life in the last year.”