Page 87 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

And now this vexing issue of smugglers. George had tried to reassure her, but she knew what she saw the other night. Those mysterious lights had been moving away from the house and onto the path to Langham. Henry had also insisted that he’d seen them much closer to the house, possibly even in the garden.

Emma eyed the distance from the gardens to the old path, mentally adding it up. It was really quite near to the house, as it ran right by Donwell on the other side of the kitchen gardens— especially if one took a shortcut across the lawn to reach it. The path proper was just past the stand of oak trees that marked the perimeter of their gardens and lawns.

Perhaps if she took just a quick peek …

She glanced around and put her cup on the table.

“Can I get you another one, Mrs. Knightley?” asked Harry.

“I’m fine. If anyone asks, tell them I’ve gone for a stroll over by the trees to stretch my legs.”

Harry registered a vague alarm. “It’s a bit icy by that path, ma’am.”

“Duly warned.”

She slipped around the other side of the bonfire, thankful that the men were too deeply involved in their discussion of corn prices to notice her. Following the edge of the lawn, she made her way toward the trees. When the snow crunched under her boots, she winced and glanced over her shoulder. Fortunately, no one was watching.

Emma slowly circled the trees, looking for footprints or other signs of disturbance. The snow was pristine, glimmering with a coating that was indeed a trifle slippery, as Harry had warned. Treading carefully, she walked toward shrubbery that partially hid the Langham path from view.

Halfway there, she found what she was looking for. There were footprints in the snow, running from the kitchen garden toward the path. She bent down to inspect them, trying to ignore her accelerated heartbeat. The footprints were intermingled, making it challenging to deduce how many sets there actually were.

“Hmm,” she muttered. “That one’s definitely a different boot from that other set … and I think …”

Three.

There appeared to be three sets of—

“Mrs. Knightley, what are you doing?”

Emma bit back a yelp as she jerked upright. Her feet slipped, and she began to flail.

Miss Bates grasped her arm, steadying her. “Oh dear! Please forgive me. When I saw you crouching down like that, I thought something was wrong.”

“No … no, I’m fine.” Emma straightened her hat, which had tipped forward over her eyes. “Miss Bates, what are you doing here?”

The spinster peered at her with concern. “When I noticed you were gone, Harry told me that you were taking a little stroll—” She suddenly glanced down at the ground. “Is that what you were looking at?”

George wouldnotbe happy about this. The last thing he would want was rumors starting to spread about smugglers.

“Yes,” she reluctantly replied. “I was a bit surprised to see so many footprints coming from the abbey to the path, but I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Miss Bates frowned. “Actually that is rather odd, especially at this time of year.”

“It’s likely just the grooms taking a shortcut into the village—probably to go to the Crown.”

“I hate to disagree with you, Mrs. Knightley, because you are generally right about everything, but isn’t the shortest way into the village along Randalls Road?”

Miss Bates was more perceptive than Emma could wish at the moment.

She pinned a smile on her face and took her future stepmother by the arm. “I’m sure there’s reasonable explanation—”

Miss Bates interrupted her. “Is that a package under those bushes? Yes, it is. Someone must have dropped it.”

Emma turned to look. There was indeed a package peeking out from under the shrubbery, just off the trail of footprints.

“Apparently,” she said.

She picked her way to the shrubs, with Miss Bates following in her wake, and gingerly retrieved the package. About the size of a brick, it was wrapped in oilcloth and bound with string. It also gave off a distinct, familiar odor.