Page 36 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

She dredged up a smile. “I suppose I just loathe not knowing what upset the poor girl so much that she would act in so impetuous a manner.”

“We have yet to go through Prudence’s belongings, which I will do tomorrow with Mrs. Hodges. Perhaps that might provide a clue as to her state of mind.”

He didn’t sound terribly convinced, nor was she.

“Perhaps,” she doubtfully echoed.

George rose and tugged her to her feet. “We’ve both had a long day, and I suspect tomorrow will be much the same. I confess to being all but asleep on my feet.”

She felt a pang of guilt. “Of course, dearest. We both need a good night’s rest.”

Emma earnestly hoped that her poor husbandwouldsleep well. She, however, would likely lie awake, with an unanswered question spinning relentlessly in her brain.

What had upset Prudence so greatly that it had ultimately led to her death?

CHAPTER8

The stone steps down to Donwell’s old kitchen had been worn smooth and to a slight slope over the centuries, first by the monks and then by generations of servants. Emma worried that the steps one day would cause someone to slip while carrying a heavy tray of food or a tureen of soup. It would be just like Harry, for instance, to fall and bash his head, which would be terribly inconvenient for the poor fellow.

That was but one of the problems she needed to solve about the house’s old kitchen. Besides the slippery steps, the dining room was so far away from the kitchen that most of their food often arrived in a tepid or wilted state. As a bachelor living alone amongst Donwell’s ancient splendors, George, though, had barely noticed such things, satisfied with a plate of cold meats and cheeses instead of a proper meal.

Those days were now gone, and bringing the abbey up to snuff was going to be a challenge. Emma looked forward to tackling it—after she dealt with the challenge of Prudence Parr’s tragic death. She remained convinced there had to be something more to the story, a buried secret or a mystery to be solved. Getting to the bottom of it wouldn’t bring the girl back, but it might provide her grieving family with answers and also give George some well-needed peace of mind.

Emma hadn’t known Prudence that well, but by all accounts she was an excellent young woman. For the last word on her short life to be so tawdry was simply unacceptable.

The kitchen was a long, narrow room with a fairly low ceiling, though it was surprisingly bright thanks to windows set high in the walls, facing both west and south. When the weather was pleasant, the door to the kitchen gardens and stable yard was left open to bring in fresh air and more light. An enormous stone fireplace, original to the abbey, served as the hub, where most of the cooking took place. A large wooden table occupied the center of the room, and crockery and gleaming cookware filled neatly arranged shelves. Despite the antique nature of the kitchen, it radiated cleanliness and order, which was a tribute to Mrs. Hodges’s ferocious efficiency.

“Good morning. Mrs. Hodges,” Emma cheerfully announced.

The housekeeper, who’d been seated in a cane-back chair with her back to the stairs, jumped to her feet and spun around.

“Mrs. Knightley! I apologize, ma’am. I didn’t hear you come down the stairs.”

That was understandable, because Emma thought she might have been delivering a scold to Harry, in what was apparently a regular occurrence. Now, the footman simply stared at Emma with a morose expression.

The housekeeper shot an irritated glance at him. “Harry, stop gaping and fetch Mrs. Knightley a chair.”

Harry shook off his momentary paralysis, much like a spaniel shook off the rain coming indoors. He fetched another cane-back chair tucked behind the pantry door and carried it around the table, almost knocking over Mrs. Hodges’s chair in the process. The housekeeper let out an aggrieved sigh but declined further chastisement.

From what Emma had been able to observe, it wouldn’t do much good anyway. Harry seemed to be naturally clumsy, something not usually found in a footman. It was fortunate that he had an excellent, tolerant employer in George, since she doubted he would last very long anywhere else.

“Can I get you a cup of tea, ma’am?” asked Mrs. Hodges. “I just made a fresh pot for Mr. Larkins, since I expect him in from the stables any time.”

“A cup of tea sounds lovely,” she replied, taking her seat.

The servants began to bustle about the kitchen. Well, Mrs. Hodges bustled, while Harry mostly stood about looking awkward, darting uneasy glances at Emma. Perhaps he hadn’t been on the working end of a scold, after all. Perhaps he and Mrs. Hodges had been discussing something that made them both uncomfortable—something like Prudence’s death.

“If you won’t be needing me, Mrs. Hodges,” he finally said, “I can get back upstairs to finish up the dusting.”

Obviously he’d already had to take on some of Prudence’s tasks. That left Emma somewhat alarmed for the delicate knickknacks that adorned the drawing room and library.

“There’s no need to rush off, Harry,” she said. “I’d like to speak to both you and Mrs. Hodges.”

As she deposited the tea tray in front of her, the housekeeper shot Emma a startled frown. But then she recovered her composure and began preparing the tea.

“Of course, Mrs. Knightley,” she said, stacking macaroons on a blue floral plate. “What can Harry and I do for you?”

“Please make yourself a cup of tea and have a seat, Mrs. Hodges. You as well, Harry.”