Page 27 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

Emma eyed the long but rather narrow casement window. “It’s not very wide, is it?”

“No,” her husband replied. “But it’s wide enough for a slender girl like Prudence to fall through.”

“True, but not easily, though.”

George suddenly leaned in, peering at a particular spot on the window frame. “Dr. Hughes, what do you make of this?”

The coroner stepped over to the window. He glowered at Sharpe, who already had his nose a mere inch from the window frame.

“Constable Sharpe,” Dr. Hughes huffily said. “You are blocking my way.”

Sharpe ignored him. “That looks mighty suspicious, Mr. Knightley. What do you make of it?”

George stepped aside, making room for the coroner. “I would prefer to hear the doctor’s opinion before stating my own.”

After examining the spot for several long seconds, Dr. Hughes turned, his expression solemn. “That is definitely blood on the window frame, as well as a small amount of hair.”

As Mrs. Hodges let out a quiet moan, Emma’s stomach pitched sideways. She had to suck in a breath to quell both the sensation and the memory of Prudence’s broken body on the terrace.

“Emma,” George said, “please hand me that lamp.”

She fetched the lamp from the dresser. He took it from her and brought it close to the window frame so that it could cast its light on the wood.

“Blond hair,” he noted.

“I take it Miss Parr had blond hair?” asked the constable.

“Yes,” George replied.

Dr. Hughes stepped away from the window. “Then the likely conclusion is that Miss Parr had a quantity of sherry, sufficient enough to make her woozy. She then opened the window, lost her balance, hit her head, and tragically fell four stories to the terrace.”

George tapped his chin. Emma recognized that gesture. It meant he wasn’t entirely convinced.

“She would have needed to be very off balance to fall out,” he said. “As my wife noted, the window is quite narrow.”

“It depends on how much she had to drink, Mr. Knightley,” the coroner replied. “It’s also possible that the wind gusted just as she opened it, pulling her even further off balance. The wind is quite strong tonight, and she was, as you say, a rather slight girl.”

“But why would she open the window in the first place?” asked Emma. “It’s freezing out.”

“When one drinks a substantial quantity of alcohol,” responded Dr. Hughes, “one can often feel overheated. The girl likely desired fresh air.”

Emma supposed that made sense. She rarely had more than a glass of wine herself or theveryoccasional brandy when life proved particularly challenging, so she couldn’t really speak to the doctor’s broad assertion about the effects of alcohol. But she did live with a parent who insisted on roaring fires and overheated rooms, so she could understand the desire to open a window.

Still, there was no fireplace in this room, so one would think it rarely became overheated in the winter months.

“There’s another possible explanation,” said the constable.

The coroner peered over his spectacles, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “And what might that be?”

“She threw herself out the window.” Constable Sharpe paused for gruesome effect. “Deliberately.”

Silence reigned, except for a small, horrified gasp from Mrs. Hodges. George, who rarely allowed himself to be discomposed, stared at the constable in disbelief.

Emma felt more than disbelief. She felt the sudden urge to box Sharpe’s ears for floating such a hideous accusation.

Harry broke the silence first. “Our Prudence would never do such a thing! She was the goodest girl you’d ever want to meet.”

The constable sniffed, clearly unimpressed by the opinion of a mere servant. “She was a chambermaid, and those girls get up to all sorts of things. Everyone knows that.”