Page 48 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

“The life of a curate is a difficult one, Mrs. Knightley. I suspect he cannot afford it.”

That was undoubtedly true, as curates were at the beck and call of the clergymen or bishop who held the living. They did much of the work with little financial reward and an uncertain future.

As they waited, Emma let her gaze wander about the room. There was only the smallest of fires in the grate, which wasn’t surprising. Whatwassurprising was the impressive collection of wine bottles and decanters on the sideboard. That was hardly what one would expect in a bachelor-curate’s modest household.

“Do you know how many servants Mr. Barlowe keeps?” she asked.

“Two, I believe,” replied Miss Bates. “A cook and a manservant.”

That was sparse living, indeed.

The door opened and Mr. Barlowe entered, followed by a grizzled-looking manservant of indeterminate years who carried the tea tray. The man thumped it down on the table in front of them before shuffling back out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

Mr. Barlowe looked embarrassed. “Please forgive Victor, ladies. I’m afraid his rheumatics bother him. I did offer to carry the tea tray myself, but he wouldn’t hear of it.” He dredged up a weak smile. “He likes to be useful, you see.”

“As do we all,” Emma replied. “Did he come with you from your last position?”

“Quite.”

After another awkward silence, she offered to pour the tea. Miss Bates stepped into the conversational breach with a patter of inconsequential questions and statements. Her flow of words was strangely relaxing, and Mr. Barlowe finally seemed to unbend.

“It is kind of you to visit me,” he said with a tentative smile. “I know you both must be so busy, what with the unfortunate events of the other night.”

Ah, just the opening we were looking for.

“Indeed,” replied Miss Bates. “We were all required to give statements to Constable Sharpe. It was very shocking and sad to think of it all over again.” She gave a visible shudder. “Not that I will ever forget that night.”

Emma handed the curate his teacup. “Were you required to make a statement, Mr. Barlowe?”

He accepted the cup with a frown. “No. Was there any reason I should have?”

“Only if you saw or heard something that might shed light on the event.”

He took a sip of tea before replying. “I believe I was in the great hall at the time of … of the accident. The hall was very noisy. But very cheerful,” he hastily added. “Quite a party, Mrs. Knightley. Not that I am generally one for such affairs, but Miss Bates was so kind as to invite me. I could hardly refuse her gracious offer. And you and Mr. Knightley are always so hospitable. Still, even though I was present at Donwell Abbey at the time of Miss Parr’s death, I remained completely unaware of what happened until the next morning.”

Mr. Barlowe hardly seemed the sort to babble, but he was babbling now.

Emma took a sip of her tea and got another surprise. The tea was a high-quality Congou tea, if she wasn’t mistaken, and was quite expensive. Could he truly afford it on a curate’s salary?

“This is an excellent cup of tea,” she said.

Miss Bates smiled at the curate. “Indeed, it’s almost as good as that of Hartfield. Not that anything could equal tea at Hartfield, Mrs. Knightley, not even tea at the Coles. Certainly Mrs. Cole serves an excellent tea, but this is most enjoyable, too.”

Emma would have been annoyed at the notion of Mrs. Cole’s tea compared favorably with that of Hartfield if Mr. Barlowe hadn’t just flushed so red that that his cheeks all but burned.

“I can hardly take credit,” he replied. “The pantry was well stocked with tea and other goods when I arrived, which was certainly a blessing.”

If that was the case, why was he so embarrassed?

What does it matter?

“How fortunate for you,” Emma said, putting the mystery of the tea out of her mind. “Now, to return to the subject of Miss Parr’s death, I’m wondering if you can help me with a certain matter.”

He paused with the teacup halfway to his lips. “If I can.”

“I was wondering how well you knew Prudence?”

Mr. Barlowe expression betrayed puzzlement. “Not well at all. Still, Miss Parr was always kind enough to compliment my sermons after Sunday services.”