Page 61 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

Emma waggled a hand. “I’ve never heard of ghosts in the abbey, but perhaps we might get lucky.”

“That doesn’t sound very lucky to me,” Harriet said, trying not to laugh. “May I come along?”

Emma hesitated. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. It’s bound to be too cold and damp for you.”

“Cold and damp won’t bother me. I’m warm all the time. Because of … you know.” Harriet pointed to her stomach. “Besides, the abbey is such a beautiful building. I should like to see a different part of it.”

When Emma eyed her askance, Harriet gave her a pleading look. “Robert’s mother and sisters hardly let me do anything anymore. They want me to sit and be quiet all the time. I should love to do something different, for once.”

She sometimes forgot that Harriet was still quite young and energetic. Being treated like a delicate piece of porcelain by her anxious in-laws was clearly wearing on her.

“As long as you promise to let me know the moment you get cold or uncomfortable.” She glanced at Henry. “That goes for you, too.”

“I promise,” the two replied in tandem.

“All right, then. Henry, fetch your warmest coat and gloves while Mrs. Martin and I get on our pelisses.”

It took but a few minutes to get ready, and then Emma led her little band of assistants to the kitchen.

Mrs. Hodges poked her head out from the pantry. “Is there anything you’re needing, Mrs. Knightley?”

“We’re going down to examine the cellars. Henry and Mrs. Martin have volunteered to assist me.”

The housekeeper nodded. “I’ll have a fresh pot of tea waiting for you when you’re finished, but I’d advise not staying too long in that cold and damp.”

Once through the door to the stable yard, Emma turned right toward the small cellar beneath the kitchen that was currently in use as cold storage. She knew that was in prime shape, so she led them farther along the back of the house toward one of the older wings.

“I see it,” said Henry, running ahead to stone steps that lead down to a door well below grade. From the looks of it, this cellar was more akin to an undercroft, running deep beneath the abbey.

Her nephew hurried down the steps and disappeared from view. When a loud voice bellowed out from behind them, Emma almost jumped out of her skin.

“Hold up, Mrs. Knightley! Them steps aren’t safe.”

She spun about to see Harry striding toward them, a frown marking his normally placid features.

“Harry, you gave me quite the fright,” she exclaimed.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am. I just don’t want Master Henry hurting himself. Them steps are terrible crumbly. I’ve been telling Mr. Larkins they need to be fixed, but I guess he’s not gotten around to it yet.”

Those were quite a lot of words from Harry. And it was not the usual purview of a footman to worry about things such as cellars—especially a footman like Harry.

Her nephew’s head popped up at the top of the stairs. “The steps are a little crumbly, Auntie Emma, but I think it’s fine.”

While it was true that edges of the stone steps were worn down and cracked, they looked solid enough. Besides, George would never have agreed to her going down to the cellars if it weren’t safe.

“I agree, Henry.” She glanced at their footman. “But I take your point. I’ll be sure to mention the steps to Mr. Larkins.”

Harriet pointed to the bottom of the stairs. “The door seems sturdy, and the lock looks quite new. I thought you said this cellar hadn’t been in use.”

Emma frowned. “It hasn’t, as far as I know.”

“Mr. Larkins had the locksmith out last summer to change all the locks on the outside buildings and entrances,” said Harry.

“Why is that?”

He shrugged. “I think it might have had something to do with the poultry thief.”

Highbury had suffered a rash of thefts by a poultry thief, both last summer and the one before. The thief had never been caught, much to the consternation of the good citizens of Highbury.